I've just ordered a new perfume. It is called "Noble" and it is to smell of jasmine, vetiver, and incense. I am sighing and swooning just at the thought of it. If it smells half as good as it sounds, I may find myself overcome with delight.
I've just acquired a new book, and, though I haven't yet inhaled the new-paper scent of its pages or run my fingers along the crisp smoothness of its cover; and though, from my position on the couch, even the muted, beach-light colors of that cover are invisible to me, I am already enjoying the physical delight of the book that awaits me as a reward for writing (at least) one paragraph of my current chapter.
Earlier today, on my way to pick up some coffee beans of my own, I passed by a man carrying a cup of black coffee and the smell of it nearly arrested me. Had ever any coffee smelled so heavenly? It hardly seems possible. That I will again one day smell coffee as or more delicious is an assurance of breathtaking beauty.
The tulips and the daffodils strained today against the cool gray sky and the biting air and it seemed that no one, anywhere or ever, had ever been so vibrantly alive.
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