Once upon a time, a man loved a doll.
And nobody chided or ridiculed the man because everyone who saw the doll, even those with the most cloddish of hearts, admired it for its exquisite workmanship and beauty.
But the man was unhappy for the doll would not return his love, but merely sit in her chair, her beautiful face frozen in unblemished porcelain.
And the more he wooed this creation of silk and china, the more frustrated he became with himself, for surely it was his own deep flaws that prevented the doll from returning his love.
So eschewing the love of flesh-and-blood women who offered him their hearts, after many years of self-recrimination and self-hatred the man died alone and despondent.
Yet before he drew his last breath, he entertained one rogue thought that maybe the reason the doll did not love him was not because he was deeply flawed, but simply because dolls of silk and china cannot return love.
But then, of course, it was too late.
He who has the mind to read, let him heed.
Do not ask me why I wrote this. I will deliberately lie to you.