It's spining

"Do you know what I like about the world?”, he once asked me.
“No, I don‘t.”
“It’s that it spins. And spins and spins and doesn’t stop!” He put his hands to his head, looked at the sky and laughed, a sound like spilled water. “And when something bad happens, then you know that it will eventually start spinning, too. It will evaporate.”
I didn’t know what that meant, I didn’t understand what he had said, but I had heard the agony in his voice and had felt the mania in his laughter. Maybe he was going insane.
“Do you really think so?”, I asked him, not meeting his eyes.
“Yes.”