He was not so much at his bottom, but operating as a wave form, bouncing from lowest to low, from horrible to terrible and back again. This caused the average to drop, the median to move, and the days to stretch out and sit like a graying pallet, cracking paint as the only signal of entropy or time. The grandiosity that is hitting the floor does not exist here, it has no quarter. The epic nature of the moment when he saw himself as truly fractured did not happen; it merely crept along at pace, caught up in languid motions imperceptible in the void.
The notion of lowest, the notion of low, the entire concept broken, shattered in piles at the feet of an over-thinker reaching a limit indistinguishable from any other. It was then that the gravity hit, the call of bed louder than the call to arms against the continuing onslaught. It was then that he felt the floor beneath shift and move, cascading down towards places deeper than previously imagined. It was then that the potential became the kinetic, became the ever falling force devouring. The bottom is a bed, and the thought of whiskey at noon on a sunny day and nothing is ever wrong.
The reality of nothing wrong is a strange one. He knows: that the universe operates; that the universe is perfect in that it exists; and that all things in the universe by definition are correct. So it is correct, proper, to slowly fall to pieces in the infinite pull of gravity. It is, by definition, his fate to fail and fail again.
So, the air is breathable, and gravity works, therefore he is born to suffer, and it’ll all be okay; it will all be okay because the universe works and there is no bottom. There is no bottom and the floor keeps sinking towards the void, but it’s okay because the universe works and we’re all born to suffer.