Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.
Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible.

“...she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one…”

“He would look over the edge of the sofa down into the sea.”

“When the Day of Judgment dawns and people, great and small, come marching in to…”

“On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.”