The lonely man, soul cast in wicker strips, carefully woven back and forth back and forth to keep all the water out, still has sand slipping through the sides of him, spilling to the floor. Happiness sits as an hourglass, and he watches as all the time slips away with all the time he had. As the new moon glints in his eye, he smiles as the sand pours and pours. Time can never be re-had, but he wouldn't want it to be so. Where he pours forth, all his life essence, there will one day be a sandy coast, and the impermeable ocean will wash up against what was once his soul.

He knows that he will be gone when the sand is, but it doesn't frighten him. He has long known of the flaws in his manufacturing, but refused to ask the people around him for some cork, afraid of imposing upon a neighbor.