multiverse brainrot and the lint cross

socks multiplying in the dark like some ungodly number i can't keep track of. they never come back, yeah? just voids where time and dreams go to disappear. every pair a whole universe where i've been abandoned--not by people, by comfort, by order. absolute cosmic disrespect. the laundry pile itself is like my existential void. there's holy symbols in the lint trap (a lint cross?? a lint halo??)

so i'm trying to write this poem about it all. thought i could find some kind of meaning--nah, that's me claiming control or admitting defeat and honestly both tracks feel right rn. and now i'm stuck on stanza three and this is my therapy sesh now. like, i need help. anyway

deadset this is the most honesty i've ever written in public. the socks are multiverse brainrot but the existential void is real. that lint cross is bold