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There is an old woman who lives in a shoe. There is a woman who lives in a sock, an old sock. There is a woman who lives in her own environment, and the intimacy of it makes her think it feels like living inside a warm, damp sock. Is it better to incubate in one’s sock, she wonders, or is it better to get dressed and go outside? Are there rare cultures she can cultivate in this warm dampness, mushroom-like thoughts that can blossom into valuable ideas, or will she merely grow moldy, a bit of damp in the ears at first, blackening gradually and creeping up her cheeks like a ghoulish blush? Such fruitless thoughts, when what she should really be doing is completing her income tax return.