He sometimes felt that life was something that had already risen, and all of this, the Jackson Pollack of spring, summer, and fall, the vague refrigeration and tinfoiled sky of wintertime, was just a falling, really, originward, in a kind of correction, as if by spritual gravity, towards the wiser consciousness–or consciousnessless, maybe; could gravity trick itself like that?–of death. It was a kind of movement both very slow and very fast; there was both too much and not enough time to think.