Fools rush in
I feel as though writing about things directly will incur blindness, like how staring directly at the sun is destructive and painful. I'd rather illuminate the birds and trees, and let you infer the bright hot ball of gas.
I feel as though I was going somewhere with that analogy, but not anymore.
When you called, it felt like a distilled sugar rush. The phone mocked me with its implacable silence, even after the clock hands began to pound out the overdue seconds. And it's hard to find release in the phone howling out its electronic cries, but I managed it, somehow. Your soundwaves crossed seas and filled exhausted oceans.
You must've broken time, because I never felt it pass, and no sugar rush lasts forever.
And as for you, reader, I'll let you infer everything else.
(What do you know, I was going somewhere with that analogy).