DOLLY SHOW

Ah, do you think we hear nothing? ... Because we have a porcelain head and crystal eyes, do you think we are deaf, dumb, blind, insensitive? ... You are wrong, my ladies, you are wrong. We, made in your image and likeness, we, if you want to know, we feel it as if our hearts were beating in our chest and our thoughts whirled in our heads. We get along well among ourselves; we tell each other our stories, we console ourselves, we rejoice; we are not at all inanimate, in short: so much so that each doll has its own good story. Would you like to hear mine? ... I will be brief and who knows that I won't teach you something.
I was born in Nuremberg; but who gave me the ability to feel was a girl's kiss, a kiss that made my life flow through my body, that made me know myself. - You are the most beautiful of all and I will make you princess, I will make you queen! - These were the words that accompanied the kiss, this was my baptism. Oh the praises! it is enough to have two ears to hear them; and if one collects them in his bosom with jealousy, he believes them to be good, as if they were truth. Praise benefits the wise and harms the fool, I heard later; but I was not born with wisdom in my body, and those words, which greeted me the most beautiful of all, buzzed in my head like sweet music, teased my nascent vanity, already gave me a haughty and contemptuous air.

STORY OF A LITTLE DOLL

And he sees that that light comes from a doll, all broken, with the heart made of a light bulb .. and the puppet thinks, she will be my wife .. but when the doll approaches, her heart of wax melts.
How am I going to love you now that I no longer have a heart, the doll holds the heart in her arms .. and detaches the light bulb from her chest and says "if you love me one heart will be enough for both of us".

I DIED ONCE

I wandered through a fantasy forest.
Blue branches, yellow barks, purple grasses, star gourds.
My one second dream.
Those who keep their hats even at night.
The thieves of gods.
Tears without taste.
Drinking.
I don’t protect myself with the sacred.
My mantle is made of mountains, bright rocks, forests that I don’t know.
Human journeys first were made by dogs.
Flora is like a colored texture around the inky black of my path.
I was a happy child and I was making bouquets of flowers.
Now I collect stones to consolidate my torn chest.
I died once where I haven’t walked yet.
I was taken without my permission.
Collected by an ogre they didn’t warn me about.
It wasn’t his garden, and I hadn’t crossed over.
Maybe my being a doll brought him closer.
Perhaps beauty sometimes brings death.

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