Sometimes it would even happen that this precocious hour would sound two strokes more than the last; there must then have been an hour which I had not heard strike; something which had taken place had not taken place for me; the fascination of my book, a magic as potent as the deepest slumber, had stopped my enchanted ears and had obliterated the sound of that golden bell from the azure surface of the enveloping silence.

Do we forget what’s special about being human, about real conversation, about love, about empathy? Are we seduced by these in-app images of ourselves: young, blonde, bearing passing resemblance to our real faces, held tightly by our companion peering over our shoulders?