Dow futures took flight before sunrise, flapping their little algorithmic wings like pigeons hopped up on espresso and tax-loss harvests. Traders called it momentum; pigeons called it Tuesday.

Wall Street described the mood as cautiously euphoric, like a lifeguard celebrating a high tide while quietly noticing the ocean is on fire. Futures flickered green, then greener, then a shade of optimism the Pantone Institute refuses to recognize for liability reasons.

Tesla earnings loom, which is investor Latin for, “We brought a calculator and a dream.” Analysts expect a number that is both higher and lower at the same time, a quantum spreadsheet where profits exist only when unobserved.

Meanwhile, U.S.-China trade talks reheated like yesterday’s dumplings: steaming, delicious, and entirely capable of igniting a trade war if you microwave them wrong. Diplomats exchanged firm handshakes, vague adjectives, and one IOU redeemable for ‘constructive progress’ by end of quarter.

CPI arrives soon, wearing a trench coat and dark glasses, pretending it’s not the reason your avocado costs a used Subaru. Economists plan to interpret it soberly, then frantically order budget inflation survival kit when milk hits luxury pricing.

Retail investors prepared by building tiny altars from candlesticks and praying to Saint Diversification, Patron of Those Who Bought the Top on a Tuesday. “Let me in on the ground floor,” they whispered, standing in the penthouse lobby.

Fed watchers tuned in to the dot plot, a constellation map where Sagittarius means ‘might hike’ and Pisces means ‘try yoga.’ Jerome Powell’s breathing pattern was analyzed for forward guidance; a sigh would imply neutral, a gasp implies buy calls on oxygen.

Hedge funds deployed machine learning to model every possible outcome and received a single elegant output: “lol.” The algorithm then asked for hazard pay and a stress ball shaped like an inverted yield curve.

Core CPI—beloved for excluding everything you actually buy—prepared to rekindle its relationship with rationality. One strategist arrived wielding a portable CPI calculator calibrated on a burrito and declared, “Inflation is transitory, but guac remains extra.”

Commodities assumed dramatic poses: oil sniffed the air like a detective who’s dated gasoline, gold put on sunglasses indoors, and bonds resumed their favorite yoga pose, Downward-Facing Nap. Crypto tried to explain itself and accidentally summoned a fog machine.

If all goes well, the market will celebrate by creating new acronyms until morale improves. If it doesn’t, executives will remind us of adjusted-adjusted EBITDA, which is just regular EBITDA wearing platform shoes.

So yes, Dow futures are up, hope is marked to miracle, and guidance is a horoscope written by a calculator. Buy the rumor, sell the reason, and keep the receipt in case optimism is nonrefundable.