The perils of concentrated thought

Our hero walks towards a bridge, hunched against the rain, obviously thinking hard. Slowly, we fall seemingly inside his head finally coming to rest in a dark space, lit by a single spotlight.

Illuminated in the light is our heroes face, blindfolded tightly.
"They haven't called. We haven't spoken to them in ages. They know where we are, they have free calls when we don't. Why haven't they called me, Mr Fluffy?"
Another spotlight comes on, illuminating a sock, that could, when on a hand, be mistaken by small children and the deranged, as a rabbit.
"Mr Fluffy?" The voice is now accelerating from melancholy to hysteria.
"Mr Fluffy?" The voice is now a shriek which would be capable of shredding nerves if any existed here.
"Mr Fluffy!" The figure swoops unerringly on the rather sad seeming sock.
The voice wails into the darkness "He's dead, my one steadfast loyal friend" and hands reach out to provide solace to the departed.
After the blindfold is dashed away the sorrow visibly evaporates. "You were a sock?" The voice, careering over the emotional scale, now comes to rest at incredulous.
"You never told me you were a sock" The voice now belongs to someone obviously repressing tears.
"Its not that I've got anything against socks you understand. It just would have been polite to say" Just as quickly the voice now oozes contriteness.

We return to our hero, just in time to see him throw himself back from the steep embankment next to the bridge. Picking himself up, we see a flicker of thought cross his face before he gets out his phone and dials.
"Hi, sorry I've not called for so long. You'll never guess what I just did..."