The light saunters through the slats of the blinds, revealing dust motes, warming my skin. I shift on the couch to keep from being swallowed up, but this makes me lose my page. My thumbs are slow as they press the paper, making the book fan open before me.
And I lose interest.
I close my eyes and let the book drop, tired on my chest. Now the sun beats red through my eyelids. I seek shelter in the dark of a pillow.