Her hair is curled, her make-up on. Her clothes are nice, although a little loose. She wants to go home, but she does not have one. She is made of ash and what comes from ash returns to ash. It is becoming late late late. She suffocates on her hopelessness and despair. She looks in the mirror. The mirror will not look back. How did she slip so far again and why can't anyone see? I scoop her up to hug her but she falls to pieces in thy arms. To save her I try. She is too sick to be spared and too sick to care. We break off and leave her behind. It is not right, it is not fair. But we all die in some way. Which doll will be next? The silence gives away the answer.
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