He's lying on his stomach on the floor, and he almost can't bring himself to open the door - to disrupt the ferocity of his concentration. An observer could tell that he is concentrating because of the way his legs are kicked up at the knee, ankles crossing back and forth like a teenage girl writing in her diary. He shifts his weight and watches his own legs flutter back and forth. He knows if he were really aware of anything outside of the memories that he is receiving, he wouldn't let his legs do that.
The more he tries not to breathe too loudly, the more he feels his chest tightening with panic - the more sure he becomes that he will never feel just as innocent as his sentiments are. Just sprawling on the door and leaning his head against the impartial white of the doorjamb - his apartment's doors have something so forbidding about them. He closes his eyes a bit, then opens them again. He is still kicking his feet.
With one ear pressed to the wood, he imagines he can hear something echoing. He lets the sound bounce in his head for a bit before he realizes it's a real sound - he closes his eyes for real now and strains to hear. When he manages to catch a phrase, it's the most poignant thing he can imagine - a real sigh of memory and purpose and the fierceness in his voice. He pulls a sob back into his throat, strangling it down. It hurts. His whole body and his head and his arms and his chest and his leg aches, and there is nothing that will push the hurt back up inside of him where it cannot be found.
Everything is whole and real and it is awful. It is with a dizzying spin that Jonah retreats back into himself and finally, thank god, the memories come to a halt.