When and wherever I see a stranger reading (the subway, the park, the doctor’s office), I always try to figure out what is it they’re reading. What, then why.
How being obvious.
(Or is it? There are times the pages are obscured, and I just have to imagine they’re there and also being read. Also, there are so many assumptions in “How,” isn’t there?)
So, why? Why that book? Is it the content? The author? Is this a project, or a pastime (or both)?
Is this good?
More: good in all sense or semblance of that word, “good.”
Tell me stranger: Do you know something I don’t know? Maybe you know something I do.
Also: Maybe I could tell you a thing or two. I have books too.
Then: “Books are dead.” Did you know that?
Finally: Yes, dead. Read for work. Reading is work. Work to get paid, or don’t work at all. Getting paid is everything, or it is nothing. Anyway, no one likes their job, which is the same as work. Don’t be a sucker! A show-off! A conceit!
Now, of course, I wouldn’t take things so far down that particular logic hole; the rabbits there are deranged.
This is nothing that should be done. Stranger readings ought to stay that way.
This is just an exercise.
The premise being ridiculous.