Snow socks

I admit it, sock knitting happened before I left home. There was snow, and time, and ... well, one thing led to another and there I was with a well-started sock on my hands. In my hands, actually. My rhythmically moving hands. My rhythmically moving, yarn-weilding hands.

What is it about knitting? Why can I do it for hours and hours? Why do I find it so difficult to set it down in the middle of a row? Why does time travel differently when string is being turned into fabric?

Why isn't blogging like that?