It's 9:00 on a friday.
I want you to look at me like I'm Christmas. I want to be happy in the wake of happiness, and I am not going to let a time change or a dark night sing me to sleep at 7:30. My work, my life, my productivity all see to suffer at the hand of winter, and it's not even thanksgiving yet. Put on the Sound Tribe and mutilate some lips, and we'll be back on the beach, battening down the hatches in the middle of a private storm, not concerned about clothes, stripped down to only happiness. A Christmas in July.