A lapse of time, and a progress within, while observing some sense of semblance beyond the book he held, he evaluated this, a mulling over, too, to begin again when the project and application of reading paused, this seemed important to the current asphyxiated feeling. But then, none of these in any single way, but a set or path or stream of impressions and beyond the set, path, or stream a collection of responses to the text in his hands.
On the window to a rainy day outside drops of water slanted across the glass implying direction in the night. Through the trees in the wooded area across the street a single tree moved in a windy waving back and forth. The stream of progress and impressions from beyond the book's structure and physical elements stayed in movement even as the act of imagining by guidance of the book paused, and now, as the book finished, a rush of questions overwhelmed him as one act, a single tree waving in the wood. Could it be this rush of questions that kept him from breathing? Was it in the constant mulling over and steady stream of thinned and constant impressions? Was it the last few, or the degrading memory of the first few? Were the night's windy rains keeping him from seeing the stillness of others in the wood through slanted drops on the window? Surely not, but still, with firm denial, he could not breath.
Conor Robin Madigan