Our Hour

Where is glamoury alive if not in actors acting? The person before us, whose thoughts we share and feelings feel more vividly than our own, does not exist as we think we do but only in the meeting of our minds, only potential on the imagined page, winking into life acutely time-limited, where our mortality is chronic. We may be dreaming in company, but he has his own ideas of waking life. Of what does he consist? We all remain ourselves as well, and the spell can easily be broken, but it rarely is. We have our hour, then are no more. We do not entirely lose ourselves, though we wish we could: we are present and willfully possessed. Sweet manipulation!