I look upon the face of a porcelein doll, and a warmth inside me grows.
Her spirit, however, is diminished by either previous interludes, or an innate absense of self worth.
Dutified by this misjustice, an attempt of temerity on my part is met by a mask of denial.
The ambrosial nature of such a being, marred by its very desire for perfection.
The munificent wonder of the manikin, shattered by dissent of all that is observable.
Without such thought, joy is left to be theory, a harsh division between the observable, and the value of oneself.
Something which borders on the realm of inhumanity, in terms of artistry, it seems, must also be enveloped by a desire to be more than human, to be impeccable.