Crowds moved wherever he went, across the bridge to Manhattan, in New York, wherever he went, life flowed and eddied, but he was not part of it.
There was no need to hurry that future—yet the length of his own youth pressed upon him. Whatever he was to do next he wanted to begin now. But how to begin and on what?
This was his mind, a storehouse, a computer programmed to life, minute by minute, hour by hour, day and night.
To take each day as a separate page, to be read carefully, savoring all of the details, this is best for me, I think.