Life is a fever of being, which is to say that it is wholly concentrated in the present moment which is nothing but a continual volatility, boiling off, consuming its fuel in a mad rush to nowhere. But then the point of view belonging to this point-presence has no weight at all, no continuity, and it is as if there is another point of view somewhere off to the side and back a ways, that is interested in how one frame slowly turns into another frame and how this frame sits inside that frame, and how the reality summing up all frames is strangely disinterested. And there may well be no such other point of view, it being just a side-effect of the one you fail to inhabit; it is only the possibility that might have been of being fully and completely present in some final reality behind the last door.