There is much comfort in sadness. Not the sadness of others, but the sadness of our own. It proves we feel, and means we care. It is ours and always ours to resolve. We can not barter an escape, and the journey must always be made to end our tears. The simple clear the day, the simple are often grey, and the simple make the new stay.
The beast of time is strange. It plays tricks on our minds, and our eyes are always two steps behind. In short, I grew worried, worried that you were no longer there, worried that you no longer cared, not of me, but of our game. With time I found calm, calm that you were where you were, just out side our gate, passing along the barren and the pointless, waiting as the last were out of site, before you returned your key and turned.
Here time is yours, you must learn to tame the beast. When heeled it will obey and you can make time do your bidding. There is no sand, no shapely vessel, ours wil not run out. Ours is a puzzle and time is our peace to piece together. Until then, return when you can and know I will as well.