We lived in pictures and moved to soundtracks. We plotted our aspirations against hero-spoken lines of dialogue and etched the course of our days with the choreographed moves of stars that were complete strangers to us, yet more dearly loved than 99% of the people we knew for real.
A case in point: my father was so bewitched by Scarlett Johansson that he was despondent for days after we watched her die in one film.
We could chat for hours about what we had seen, if we weren’t too busy seeing something else. We could reference any of the thousands of images, stories and voices we’d ingested. We could share in this way, bonding over silence and sloth.