[T]he small Apples which I have often observ'd to grow on the leaves of an Oak call'd Oak-apples […] are nothing but the Matrices of an Insect, as I elsewhere show.

He didn't manage to authenticate the portrait: it's probably a fake.

Breakfast when they return is at the little kitchen table where Max has eaten thousands of meals, and every morning, without fail, the old man slides a ripped-off chunk of toast and a piece of banana to the dog at his feet, precisely the behavior experts at Guiding Eyes for the Blind had warned against because it can turn a service dog into a food hound who noses along restaurant tabletops in search of left-behinds.

Your resolutions: Exit your flop era, resolve all conflicts that riddle your relationships, purchase a disco ball for your bedroom