Looking past the window pane, the middle aged man grabbed his binoculars. He carefully adjusted the lens to his sight, just enough, so that he could see straight through the neighboring house’s window. There he spotted her, lying on her bed. It had come to his realization, she had been deeply focused into the same novel for a few weeks now. He noticed those vague aspects, just like how she modestly nips at the tips of her nails when she deeply drowns herself in thought.
The man's face represented no emotions; internally he was drowning in his own thoughts of insanity. He was no sane man, and he was aware of that. In fact, his psychotic thoughts kept him to his own level of sanity, his own happiness. He felt empowered and capable, unlike any other time before.
"Always alone, you've been,” he whispered to himself softly from under his breath. Removing the lens from his face, he did not break eye contact off of her for a second. Without a single blink, nor the slightest draw back, he reached for his rifle. He held his breath, and steadily took aim directly through her window.