Run On

She shook her head, a sort of severe heaviness clinging to her eyes that once piqued my curiosity and caused shivers of nervousness to run down my spine like a Mongol horde charging across the steppes, and said,

"Byron, this essay you've written has a lot of potential, but I think it needs some work; it reminds me of the early works of a prodigy- something along the lines of Mozart's early works, only using the written word instead of musical notes..." there was a pause, and I dared to think she was done, a clear indication of my folly,

"What you are looking for is a way to expand the ideas being conveyed while not compromising the original intention of the work- The saga of Odysseus spans pages upon pages, and yet the audience follows one word at a time, giving the work a sense of progression..." her breath rushed in and out, something which should have warranted the use of a pause but due to her haste fell just short, before the words continued to pour out,

"This essay has a lot of potential, and I want to help you make the most of it--"

I stopped her with a wave of my hand, and asked slowly, the fatigue hanging heavy on my voice, "Miss Atkins, are you all right?"