So one night, I’m walking through Grand Army Plaza when I spy this:

This sock is lonely.

This sock is lonely.

That picture gives you a good look at the sock, but without context, it’s hard to capture the loneliness.  So here, without further ado, I provide context:

Shying away from the spotlight.

Shying away from the spotlight.

We all get lonely at night in Brooklyn.

We all get lonely at night in Brooklyn.

All in all, a successful night of sock scouting, I’d say.  But wait–we’re not done.  The next day, about 21 hours later, to be exact, I was once again walking through Grand Army Plaza when I saw something out of the corner of my eye:

Still there.

Still there.

This, of course, raised some philosophical questions for me.  Why did I awesome these socks would somehow move on from their spots by the next time I came around?  If I’m not picking them up and taking them home (I gotta draw the line someplace), who is?  Why would I think someone is going to come throw the sock away?  If that sock is there, it’s staying there.  It’s unloved.  It’s lost.  It’s alone.  It can’t dig itself out of its metaphorical hole.  It has no powers of ambulation.

How is this sock supposed to be anyplace else?

How is this sock supposed to be anyplace else?

22 hours after this picture was taken, I went back to Grand Army Plaza.  The sock was gone.

And my world was changed forever.

Next week…believe it or not, I’ve still got more socks to show.

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