Time, dear reader, is a fickle and enigmatic thing. Every child knows that “five minutes in time out” and “five more minutes until you have to come inside” are immensely different spans. They say that every sixty seconds in Africa, a minute passes — but some extra nanoseconds are passing up on the International Space Station. If you were on a white dwarf star and your friend was talking to you on the phone from orbit, it would sound like you were listening to a chipmunk and then you would die.
Two days for a panic-stricken suburb could be almost two weeks for a traveler in a far-off domain. And what shall we say of the domain of the unconscious? As a pair of exhausted and bewildered young men snatch a few minutes of sleep in their hiding place, who knows for what lengths of subjective time they wander the vaporous, inchoate realm of dreams? Days? Weeks? Two months?
Yeah, basically two months.
Yonder is going on break while I focus on real-world stuff, in other words. I shall rise from my slumber on December 3 to wreak more havoc on unsuspecting worlds. See you then.