I cannot be stored, only noticed after I leave. Pursue me directly and I thin; ignore me and I arrive. I weigh nothing, yet every life measures itself against me. Name the outcome mistaken for a goal.

A small size I am, with this the sands of time will surely stay on its tracks

I’m not your plate, but I take the hit, Catching crumbs when forks misfit. I lie beneath your dinner chat. What am I?

It's inside a tree And sometimes seen at night It could mean a promise Or a place for a fight Put it on a finger The one that shares its name It could come from a phone Or be made for a game What am I?

Metaphorically, a feeling of ease and enthusiasm, perhaps such as one might feel upon entering Rivendell. Literally, it might mean your blood does not flow with enough force. Start with that which always travels at the same speed in a vacuum, then something Christiaan Barnard was the first to exchange. Follow with a TV mister who was not human, then conclude with an untouchable Eliot.