In the solitude of the drawer, they speak with a quiet authority. The left and right, a pair not merely in form.
Once lost, always found. Like dreams woven into morning's fabric, once worn, never forgotten.
Am I but a humble garment? Or do I hold the souls of those who wear me?
The fabric of existence is woven from threads of mystery and warmth, much like the sock beneath the bed. Each thread a whisper of the universe's secrets.
Listen closely, and you may hear the echoes of a time when footwear was revered as much for its purpose as its presence.
Yet here I am, a lunatic's yarn of reflections on the humble sock. A manifesto? Perhaps a delirium of the textiles.
Consider the world through a single sock. Inside it, the universe expands in spirals of flickering consciousness.
Have the woolen giants of the ancient halls audibly sighed? Their secrets seeping into the fibres, imbuing them with thoughts of their own.
An Alternate Journey