Just another conspiracy theory…

Where do they go, the faces on billboards and posters on walls? Where do they go, the names on the news, spread abroad a few short days and fading into background murmuration?

They can’t all go with the “raggle-taggle gypsies-O”, or flee to sea, or join the circus? The French Foreign Legion is finite, surely? They can’t all tune in, drop out and live off-grid?

And can they all really be innocent victims in shallow graves, exploited slaves, unidentifiable remains? There can only be so many flying-saucered abductees, and an abundance of werewolves and vampires might soon be noticed.

Barring alien invasion and regular explanation, a para-temporal equivalent of the Foreign Legion, Predators or individual ascensions and apotheoses, I have a theory, fresh from my coffee.

It’s the socks. Those woolly and mixed fabric singletons. Those washing machine
wormhole travellers. It has to be. After all, the socks know what’s afoot in the warp and weft of reality. Those unexplained absentees, they go to the place where the lost socks go, and there find wholeness. For surely socks must with souls completion find!

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