Today I saw a long-ago image of a very small boy playing a carved flute who looked to be suffering some true misery. This bothered me, and I looked at it several times, even though, as I said, whatever was going on happened long ago, so long ago that it's unlikely he's still among the living. Finally, in my mind I leaned toward him, and whispered some words, and offered him drink, and gently swabbed his face with a warm damp cloth.