He used to remember the days when he slipped a woolen sock over his head like a slipcase to his totally blasted soul. He used to remember when he ran blindly through the fields of shit, resembling a gone sock monkey off on a psycho tribute. He doesn't remember anything anymore. Those days are gone for him. The socks have taken all they can from him. He now sees himself as an inanimate object with a sack of nails for a body. Silicone wastelands doll up his moving image prosthetic personality and he no longer waits for the moment of footwear ecstacy. Yet, that instinctual yearning lingers: he altogether resembles something machine made and spineless.
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