Among the questions that
puzzle the God of Lost Socks is why he is male. Most gods are fluid,
their shape a matter of choice; some can even alter their function,
and this is power as gods see it: to not be yourself, even for a
moment, is a wonder without compare. The God of Lost Socks, who calls
himself Hole in order to have a name at all, has only two shapes: a
small boy and a creepy old man. All lost socks are his and he stores
them in a place all his own.
Some gods have heavens,
which they often flee. The god of lost socks has a closet that
stretches as far as the eye can see with more doors than most heavens
can dream of. It would be a thing of envy, this closet without end,
were it not for the smell. Lost socks gather in heaps and corners
beside small doors of many shapes leading to closets and washing
machines and the dryers of the world.
Most are never found again.
A sock cannot weep, this is true, but the whisper of fabric on fabric
is a sad, low rustle of things never found. The ones no one searches
for are angry, though few notice it. If your socks get more holes
than you would expect, it is quite possible you have lost too many
socks and their anger has found you. It is also perhaps more
plausible that you should just buy better socks.
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