Just now as I sat in the gazebo, Finn squeezed in next to me carrying a handful of Gobots.
“Hi, Dad-O.
“Hi, Finny.”
“I’m writing.”
“You’re… writing?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you writing?”
“Poems.”
“Poems…? Really? What are the poems about?”
“Hearts.”
“Hearts?… What kind of hearts?”
“Poop hearts… I like talking about poop with you, Dad-O.”
Aaaand, Scene.