When Mikey sits on his window sill, inhaler in hand, sadness painted on his face under grey clouds, in dilapidated housing, older brother Brand lifting weights, I feel it.
When Data, Mouth, Chunk and Mikey ride their bikes, past lush greenery, bickering loudly, but excitedly adventuring looking at that map and doubloon, I feel it.
When Chester Cobblepot, skelebones body is laying in the dirt, with skelebones legs trapped under a broken booby trap, and he dreams of riches a whisper to only the dead, I feel it.
When playing a cursed piano, made of skelebones that has the most haunting incorrect note, but also a truly delightful success note, and Andy is glad she took lessons on a Steinway, I feel it.
When The Fratellis get their comeuppance, as do the snobs at the golf course, and One-Eyed Willy sails to the horizon, a ghost pirate for all time, I feel it.
I feel within me a sense of childhood that is difficult to keep hold of as you grow, but can always be briefly returned upon submersing oneself in the olden days.