The emphasis on one more.
It makes me feel like I'm racing toward death.
There's a bit from Rilke's ninth elegy Pynchon borrows in GR which comes to mind too,
But because being here is much, and because all
that’s here seems to need us, the ephemeral, that
strangely concerns us. We: the most ephemeral. Once,
for each thing, only once. Once, and no more. And we too,
once. Never again. But this
once, to have been, though only once,
to have been an earthly thing – seems irrevocable.