[ He pauses to tap his fingers on the sand before him, grabbing some of it up and slowly letting it go, his owlish, unblinking gaze watching the grains fall. ]

Fickle is the heart of man, but fickler still's the ground on which he stands. You can empty something, but you cannot fill it up if there is a hole in it, can you? A sinking boat with too many holes is an impossible task.

[ Is he waxing philosophical? Or is that a hint? ... Perhaps it's also a warning. ]