What a story indeed. So much depth, so many ideas. Such a unique perspective.
The ending was so quick and unexpected. Wish there was more to the story. So many open ends to interpret however you want. So many questions left unanswered.
Like why was he "the writer," but there was nothing about writing. What's going on, what was the point?
So much confusion and yet somehow everything is so simple and clear. Such is the profoundness of the mastermind.
It is a special day. The writer aimlessly writes another story. This time it is about the writer which eats socks for breakfast. No, too much eating garbage and stuff. Not eating, this time he is painting socks. He paints different kinds of socks. Different colors, different shapes. Some of them don't even look like socks anymore. Some have faces, some have feces on them. He is definitely not going to ruin the joke by pointing out how he swapped a letter to turn faces into feces.
His paintings were captivating. Sometimes dark, sometimes funny. Sometimes hollow, referring to other writers. He painted as much as he could, as much as he wanted. Nothing could stop him, even if he was threatened to death. He would even be happy to use the threat for inspiration.
He could consume all around him and spit out socks. All differing depending on what he consumed and how long he kept it all inside. Depending on time sometimes they would become shinier, sometimes thinner and with duskier colors. Sometimes nothing would change by keeping it inside, it would come out later the same as it would come out earlier. He somehow knew it as if he had eyes inside his stomach.
Of course, he got lonely after he consumed everything and turned it all into socks. He started eating himself. Part by part he would bite himself off, chew a bit, swallow, wait a bit and spit out colorful, new, bloody socks.
He ate himself completely, all except the teeth. He could not eat the teeth. He needed teeth to eat everything but there was nothing left to eat the teeth themselves with.
Besides, he was sad he won't have anything to consume now to make more socks. He was also sad, he did not try to eat it all at once, maybe that would give different, more interesting results. He will never be able to try that now. Such was the sorrow of the unstoppable.