Sunday was another story, watching what’s-his-name on the tee-tele-vele-vee in socks and coffee all mid-morning long.

It’s the smell, not the flavor or the kick kick kick of the beating-heart adrenaline-rush (sick to the stomach with too much of that), but a wafting deep-dark-dreamy coffee-canary blue-skies sunny-day smell in front of a good show is worth a thousand words.

Smells like tomorrow. Life is a daydream.