life had become a yellow-pages phone-book, a directory of names and numbers i'll never need but still keep around,
flipping through pages in hopes of finding what i was searching for, but finding the unknown places i never knew existed, like "Cartridge World" and "Indian Kitchen"
and the numbers that used to mean so much to find, mean nothing in no time, and i'm left with millions of area-codes and combinations of numbers that become encryptions, like the people i couldn't seem to figure out, or the ones that hung up the phone without saying goodbye,
life sounded like the leafing through pages and dialing numbers, the phone-lines and the voicemails, waiting for people to pick up the phone, and leaving messages in hopes of a call back, and listening to voices that radiate warmth one moment but turn cold the next, fearing every single dial will be a wrong number, and i'll never get connected to the right call.