Glamour - her dark hair curling onto milk-white shoulders, the ruby gloss of her lips visible even in the backstage shadows. Her profile, as she glances at you, is so beautifully formed that Guinevere herself might hide her own in awe. And as she awaits her entrance, her timing as exquisite as ever, you can sense the impatience in her silhouetted figure, well-manicured hands idly gripping the velvet curtain.
And I dream of her, standing on the stage, finally exulting in her appearance, a single white hot spotlight illuminating every enviable feature. And Jealousy whispers in my ear and I wake, the bedclothes torn in my frenzied hands and tears of frustration on my face.
For I dream of another and he answers my call idly, distracted, and leaves to amuse himself by his lonesome - or with his ensemble - at his lightest whim. And Jealousy murmurs that the daughter of Glamour could have him on his knees worshiping her and I throw my glass at the wall just to hear it smash.
I retreat into my spiritual dive, but the dirty walls and cracked floor serve only to frustrate me as Glamour sits on a teakwood throne enveloped in silken glories and eating caviar from platinum teaspoons.
And the world calls me from my private lair and I retreat, lest it find a way to sneak in and spy upon my secret fancies and jealously-hidden fears.
Der Zauber bevorsteht - und sie ist meine Liebe.
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