Brett grew up to be a man who stored robin nests in his empty kitchen cabinets, the more delicate, the better. Doing exactly what pleased him in his off hours was, he believed, one of the great delights of being an adult. There was no girlfriend, no roommate insisting that he buy plates, forks and spoons, throw something in the microwave (anyone could manage that) and eat dinner at home every now and then. And if dinner proved too much of commitment, there was always breakfast or a late night snack. At one point in his late 20’s, Brett suffered through a parade of girlfriends bent on reforming him. Eventually, they realized that Brett listened only to an inner muse, one that didn’t whisper beautiful lines of poetry or guitar riffs begging to be heard, but instead drove him to collect these marvels of engineering, built by a bird brain no less. Too bad his inner muse was deaf to the pissed off robins who flew in aimless circles around their missing nests.