(Or is it?)
This box of socks, all of which once hung on a fence, is being discarded, with a heavy heart, because of the memories of the fleet unfooted items, flying in the breeze on a fence, in protest, in decoration, for a laugh, however you saw them.
They have been in hiding, for want of a new project, but, over time, they have lost their luster and now they stink of mice, and decay and indifference.
vive la chausette!
