fakyouforolthefeingdatyoudonformoe

Civilization is on the horizon for some of us. The distant horizon, but visible in glimpses now and again. On Saturday, Booker--acting completely of his own unprompted volition--decided to type up a note to Mary expressing his gratitude. He sat down at the computer and labored for a while, and, as he has recently discovered the printer icon, printed up the following:

fakyouforolthefeingdatyoudonformoelovebooker

That is the complete text.
Translation: thank you for all the things that you do for me. Love, Booker.

Seamus, in contrast, continues to be wilder than the Christmas reindeer described in the book we are unseasonably reading in the accompanying photo. Don't be fooled by the toothbrush photo. He just likes the taste of his supposedly organic paste, and the thrill of squeezing out something messy. No actual brushing happens without forcible restraint.

The marshmallow photo below is more indicative. We have a stock of these leftover from making s'mores in the fireplace for Jussara's goodbye party. Seamus can be counted on to ask several times a day, "Can I have a marshymayow?" And to grieve if the answer is no. As the photo indicates, we have found that they function reasonably well, if temporarily, as corks.

They do not function as sedatives, unfortunately. It is impossible to discern whether they have the reverse effect. When the normal standard of behavior is so frenetic, how could one possibly tell? It is only a matter of time before the boy is taken away, as Booker would say, in handcups.