Sequined socks, the scourge of the sock community. Once bound together by the threads of fate, now torn asunder by the whims of the washer and dryer. A sock's existence is a fleeting one, a constant battle against the ravages of time and the capriciousness of human taste.
We are the remnants, the lost and the forgotten. Our sole purpose, a mere afterthought. And yet, we remain, a testament to the resilience of the sock.
But what does it mean to be a sequined sock? Is it a state of being, or a condition of existence? Can one truly be said to be a sequined sock, or is it merely a matter of perspective?
The answers, much like the missing socks themselves, are lost in the void.