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