In the dead of night the echoes of tribal drums resound within the souls of men. An off kilter, cheshire moon grins down as Herman feels this beat, the stirring in his loins from generations past.

He rises, driven by primitive impulses, moving by force of genetic code and not conscious effort. By day he is a mid-level business analyst, suit and tie, one wife and house, dress shoes and dark socks. In the dark, from the shadows, nature calls him, mocking his palid existence.

Staggering to an ancient rhythm he treads familiar paths, the hallway of his conservative flat on the one hand, well worn hunting trails on the other. Life swells within him, threatening to explode the confines of modernity. The surge of instinct demands action. The injustice of thousands of years of repression demands recompense.

The thought occurs, a small but meaningful start, yet something inoccuous to escape the filter of propriety, an urge more universal than we might imagine, “Damn the socks! Fling them away! Damn them!”