That Feeling You Get When You Smell It

It happens every time.  First there's a sniff.  Then there's a snuff.  Then my brain registers what it is I'm smelling, and it all starts happening.

The faint, lone brass instrument holds out a long note, echoing off somewhere.  As it does this, the room darkens with a deep rumble, turning into an arena as wide and gaping as the sky itself.  The rumble grows more heavy in my ears, and that solitary trumpet is joined by its brother, playing an octave lower.  Faintly, an army of snare drums is softly tapping.  The feeling of eternity is rising up, swelling deep deep down inside me.  I can feel it.

The rumble reaches its climax, the instruments grow louder in volume, and a piercing violin crescendo grows and grows, having faded in from the blackness.  Just when it's about to reach its peak, it stops.  A black bwoom sound replaces all noise, and for a moment I feel suspended in the air, on the brink of falling.

Then I fall.

I fall right into the blinding white light of awesome explosions.  The full-blown orchestra explodes around me.  Timpanis roar, the brass section erupts, the piano pounds heavily, in the back an electric guitar is screaming at the top of its lungs, and a choir is coating it all in a splash of epic music.

Fire.  Explosions.  Pyrotechnics.  The whole nine yards.  All around me.  Then, just as soon as it starts, the scene reaches a final climax, with one last wave of an epic explosion.

The room returns to normal.

Silence replaces it.

"Hey," I say, "Can I have some of that popcorn?"