VIII

In my second drawer, I have seven mismatched socks.  I have no idea what became of their mates.  This is compounded by the fact that none of the remaining socks look remotely alike, robbing me of the ability to surreptitiously wear a mismatched pair.  What are the chances of this? I feel if I should go to buy more that there is a guarantee that they too shall be lost and I will be left with yet another pairless item of footwear.  Scientists are busy calculating the fabric of space and time with superfluous accuracy, and I have no idea what became of my beige sock.  This means that I have been unable to wear brown pants in a fortnight.  A fortnight, for no reason I am aware of, is two weeks.  I could, I suppose, one morning, before work, go buy more, but while scientists are discussing the birth of the universe to a fraction of a second, the local Rite Aid cannot assure me of its opening time.  Eight.  Maybe seven.  "Perhaps if you came around nine...."  As we draw close to the order of the ultimate, the pragmatic world grows more chaotic.  It is a reverse ration--much like the texture of fruity pebbles to the sugar content of the milk.  We live on the razor's edge of anarchy, and yet if I walk out my front door wearing nothing but a wool scarf, someone is sure to call the police.  I am boggled by the inconsistency of the real.  I am exhausted by the entropy around me.  I am also desperately short on socks.