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The lights are blinding, row after row,

They find us heartbroken,

Naked in the snow.

A tree, a bridge, a moon of red,

Paint me a picture, she said.

I labored away, toiled as told

a blue shimmer, a fog as cold —

But when I came to, from amongst her graces

Nothing was left but a dim facet faded

That I should see her in my dreams

Is not a penance but a theme.

If you speak any lines, or do anything, mechanically, without fully realizing who you are, where you came from, why, what you want, where you are going, and what you will do when you get there, you will be acting without imagination. That time, whether it be short or long, will be unreal, and you will be nothing more than a wound-up machine, an automaton.

- Stanislavski, An Actor Prepares

© Copyright 2017 Ian Arawjo. All rights reserved.