You have been Small Character too. Perhaps that’s the kernel of your deep sympathy. Lost in the woods and discovering all your cleverly laid bread crumbs eaten up by the even more clever birds. Who wrote those birds into my story? Why did I wear this thin and flimsy nylon jacket instead of a substantial wool overcoat? You regard all your own Small Characters, enclosed in holding pens or pacing their garrets. Perhaps you wish mightily to be merciful. And then you turn away. You take down the beautiful cages made of living branches and release the birds. They are hungry and sure to find the bread crumb trail which gleams like a comet’s tail through the dark night.