L'Appel

Love.

Seventeen minutes and twelve seconds later and the parasol is in full bloom and the sand is still bottle-necked in the hourglass. Time, has replaced the message with its clock face and its arrow hands, cupped full of the matter of shattered glass. There's beaches of it, and you and I are swimming ceaselessly in it. All the time. I may ask myself what is going to happen within the next fifteen seconds, but will realise by then that by the time I would have thought about it, I would have lost my time thinking about it, and with that, my mind. And you would leave me behind, to drown in my contradiction. I'm not impressed.

But you come back for me, anyway.