You go into the office and take a book or two from the shelves. You read a few lines, like your life depended on reading 'em right. But you know your life doesn't depend on anything that makes sense, and you wonder where in the hell you got the idea it did; and you begin to get sore.
The protagonist enters an office, captivated by the books it holds. He immerses himself in reading, as if the act is crucial for his survival. However, there’s an underlying realization that his existence isn’t truly reliant on such logical pursuits, and he questions the validity of that belief.
This moment of introspection leads to a growing frustration within him. The tension between his need for meaning in literature and the disillusionment with his own understanding of life's significance creates a poignant inner conflict, highlighting the struggle to find purpose amidst confusion.
