Am reading a book; an actual physical book.  It has a cover and pages made of paper covered with words printed in actual ink.  It only does one thing and that is be a book and tell a story.
I hold it close to my face and flick through the pages quickly, as I have always done.  I smell the smell that so thrilled me as a child - the combined scents of paper and ink; the smell of the bookstore at the smallish mall that I could walk to from my childhood home.  It is the smell of many happy hours to come. It smells wonderful.