One time, in Tokyo, I woke up way before Adam did. About 5am, I'd guess. Thanks a lot, jetlag.

I rolled over in my bed to take a look out the window. I opened my eyes, and all I saw was the painful burst of white; the dull ache inside your eyeballs. So I squinted tight and waited for my eyes to agree with the morning, and dragged myself out of bed.

By the time I cracked the window open, my eyes had accustomed themselves to the light and I could see the morning laying upon Tokyo. The sun cut a knife through the Tokyo's sleep. An alarm bell on a dreaming city. And I'll never forget the smell as long as I live. It was the smell of unrestrained industry like blooming flowers, and buzzing energy like freshly-uncorked champagne.

You always make fun of me for oversleeping. This morning, I got up at about 6am. No idea why. I just got up bright and early. I opened my window up, and the morning lay lightly on the canyons. The birds chirped merrily enough, and the canyons smelled of fresh beginnings like dew on the grass.

What I like about the mornings is it's lack of apology. It sweeps over you and restarts you without asking you to save your work. It's time for a new day when the sun says it is, and that's final. All you can do is let your eyes adjust and smell the morning's story. The air's crisp and all I can smell is a bright, new world.

Hey, don't forget: we're gonna show 'em that the world isn't so serious.