"But what about stories?" she made herself wonder, losing her place on the page.
It doesn't matter where she was, because she wasn't really there.
"Am I consuming these books too fast, this feels gluttonous. Will I remember what I've learned? How could I? It's already been digested. Will I remember the feeling of being inside of this character? No-the character won't be the same next time I read this, because I won't be the same"
She had once measured her time in pages. Leafing through the heft of a well-loved book, she could calculate how many cigarettes she'd smoked per hour...the ash finding its grave between every few pages.
Maybe this time she wrote when she should have let herself read. Today she is tidy and she looks to have forgotten how.
(This may be elaborated upon, depending on if I choose to read or write)