Silly striped cloths worn on rotten feet, sometimes they go missing, but sometimes they fleet. Odor bombed and holey worn in, these are just the kind, for the thimbles of Chinn. Cleaned up and patched, reattach what is torn, turn them over, and voilà – they are reborn. Knots on the sides purling pig tails, a zipper toothed mouth, with some stitching details. Sew on some buttons because they need to see too, a body, arms and legs, look, now they are you. Take them to a party or take them to a show, show them this life, where suffering is slow. Handcrafted sock dolls, just like you and me, we’re not so different, we’re equally unfree. A needle, punk, and stitch, a little safety pin prick, scratch that bleeding itch. Take a moment if you can, name them something unlike 9 or Raggedy – the Anne. Raging against the paradox of perfection, we are, we live in, natures fabric garbage collection. Order within chaos, all in a dolls head, hidden, misunderstood, risen from the dead. Crafty little creatures victims like us, born in the light, just to die in the dusk. Knitted walking parts recreated whole, a sock beauticians journey, sole to soul.