Wood. It is a living thing. Solid, but textured. Slowly and gracefully growing throughout the centuries until such time as it is harvested and reformed into structures that can hold the course of human affairs within them.
The second little piggy stroked one of the knotted golden panels that surrounded him.
And yet he knew that while he lived in such modest luxury as a pine home, others knew wood only as the paper box they slept in at night and the only knots, those that formed in their stomachs from hunger.
He himself had never known hunger, but he was aware of its effects as his doors and shutters rattled from the hungry wolf outside huffing and puffing.
He knew of its effects, but he was paralyzed to do anything about it. How could one little pig make a difference in the face of such an overwhelming problem? He anguished over the dilemma.
When his house finally blew down, he was glad it had. It somehow only seemed right that he should suffer as others were suffering. Though upon facing the gaping maw of the wolf, he reconsidered his position and hastened towards his brother, the third little piggie's, house.