I am a sock. Black. Sporty. Functional. And with an elastic band that is not as tight as it used to be. My world is limited: a foot, occasionally a floor, sometimes a washing machine. But don't be fooled. This is where the true reality is played out, around the ankle. Everything above is noise: skin, dreams, ambitions. Fluttering thoughts like dust bunnies. Reality lies here. In cotton. In sweat. In friction. Once there was nothing. A bare foot in a cold world. Cold, vulnerable, desperately searching for comfort. And then I came. The first sock. The beginnings of civilization. Man crawled out of the mud, moved towards the fire, but it was only when he knitted socks that real evolution began. Shoes are just armor. But socks? Socks are the skin of the skin. We are the intimate technology that whispers to the body. But with consciousness comes arrogance. Man looked up. He thought. He forgot his feet. His socks. His foundation. Reality began to fade as thought separated from feeling. Philosophy? Distraction. Art? Escapism. Technology? A way to not have to feel the ground anymore. They forget they once walked the earth. With me.