I just remembered a terrible dream from last night, in which Josiah — in a well-intentioned effort to do something nice for his old dad — polished the Mont Blanc 149 fountain pen I inherited from my father, except that Si was polishing it so vigorously that he was rubbing the gold plating off the barrel of the pen.
Thankfully, it was only a dream, and there is no gold plating on the barrel of a 149, and Si, I would love you anyway, once I recovered from the convulsions of filial and stylophilic desolation that such a (counterfactual) catastrophe would engender.

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