To hear the laughter here pampering him this way. Of witty dreams, it aways seems, when watching a child at play. These wonderings, this pondering, raptures him again. Of  rousing dumplings, giggling, nothing is never the same. His life, nearly spent, stuffed with tales of old. Of memories, and histories, and passions gilded gold. He often weighs these lonely aims, with misty awe, dancing with his day. Such is the peculiar nature of watching a child at play.

Randy Quickall ღƪ(ˆ◡ˆ)ʃ ☼