HAMLET:
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That from her working all his visage wann’d,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing!
For Hecuba!
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?
JOHN:
It happens, sometimes. I forget my lines,
Where I should stand, what props I carry on,
Forget the lights, the costumes and the stage,
Forget the people sleeping in their chairs,
Forget myself, and in this perfect state
Of emptiness, my consciousness descends,
And time is senseless, sense is timeless too,
Thus overcome, my heart explodes with joy,
My eyes become the mirror of my soul.
