A substitution of life.

My beak is not just, my feathers are ruffled,

There is another world inside of me...

It starts deep within the somber meadows...

It goes deeper than the idea that if had to choose between my own life and someone else's, I'd choose my own...

He never showed his face, no one did. The ‘Improved Society’ walked, talked and worked hidden. He never understood it. What was there to gain from hiding behind featureless material?