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.