After the pose was set, I gazed at a wall of faux marble, leaning forward, in such a way that all the weight of my upper body was supported by my hand, which was resting at the edge of a prop.

I cannot remember the duration of this pose; it was surely long enough to lose sense of time.

When I came back to myself, I noticed the changed colors of my hand, and what I observed could not be distinguished from the marbled spectacle I had immersed myself in.

(marbleising)

The first time I encountered a book of hours, I knew very little of art, and nothing of religion. I just looked at the book for what it was, and I indeed saw hours: the many hours someone had spent adorning it. Hence my first, faulty but deep-grounded association with the term: a book of hour condenses time into a surface.