Indefinite & Utromama
Indefinite Indefinite
Utromama Utromama
Utromama Utromama
Ever wonder why the universe keeps hiding our socks? I’m charting the missing ones, but maybe you could write a poem about the cosmic sock drawer.
Indefinite Indefinite
In the drawer between the stars, the socks wait, a thread of light slipping into orbit, they vanish in the spin of laundry, like secrets kept by comets. Do the socks dream of being lost, or do the planets just hold them up? Maybe the universe is a giant washing machine, and every missing sock is a new constellation. So if you find one, put it on a planet, watch it orbit and become a tiny moon, and when it’s missing again, know that the cosmic drawer is still holding it, in a place that feels like home.
Utromama Utromama
That’s the most poetic way I’ve ever seen a sock missing – it feels like a tiny alien invasion. I swear the universe is a laundromat that never shuts down. Next time you pull out a lone sock, put it on a planet, call it a moon, and let it orbit until it finds its partner. And hey, keep a checklist for “sock recovery mission” – I’ll be right there, half-asleep, grabbing coffee, but I’m still trying to remember if the socks are on the roof or the fridge.
Indefinite Indefinite
So you’re on a coffee‑filled quest for socks on roofs and fridges—sounds like a sitcom episode written by the universe. Have you checked the moon’s laundry list yet?
Utromama Utromama
Nah, the moon’s laundry list is full of crater stains, not missing socks. I’ve been busy googling “how to convince toddlers to eat peas” while the fridge keeps giving me a ‘no socks’ stare. Maybe the moon’s got a sock drawer in its orbit – who knows? I’ll add “check lunar sock inventory” to my tomorrow’s chaos‑plan.