You are backstage, attempting in vain not to hinder those who are scrambling around you, which appears to be everyone except you. The vague notion sets in that while the role of observer would preferable, you are more connected to your circumstances than not. An assistant to someone’s assistant then scurries into your corner, spitting questions about costume and fitting and time running out. Glancing down in befuddlement at your own clothes only increases the spitting and scurrying, when suddenly by the arm you’re pulled (though not in an unkind fashion) down a claustrophobic hallway littered with posters and permanent marker graffiti.

The darkness is punctuated by searing white light beaming from each open door, through each of which is a pocket of two to three people. The level of activity creates a dull buzz in your ears and behind your eyes, prompting general disorientation. And yet despite the overwhelming momentum of so many people in such a small space, all you really want is a cigarette.