What a beautiful play I saw tonight. Cyrano loved Roxanne so much that he adored her vicariously as the voice from another man’s lips. He prized her happiness over his own. He helped another suitor woo Roxanne and denied the desires of his heart, sufficing only to express his love in ink. Anonymous professions of the ghostwriter’s smitten heart graced reams of parchment, smeared with spots of teardrops. He loved deeply, even if he was not loved directly in return.