There are those people, unbeknownst to them, with whom we become obsessed. However, we know very little about them. The girl next door. The boy that stands alone on the corner. We take in their beauty, what we conceive of as beauty—what is, what becomes, beautiful to us. The movie star. The rock musician. On this visage we place idealized notions of love, joy, ecstasy, of hopes, dreams, and clichés. The romantic interlude. The faithful relationship. These are the impossible connections between two people who, in essence, do not exist. Her and you. You and him. The ideal we have built is not real. The real person does not know us nor does he care to, extinguishing our existence as well.