"Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other"
- Francis Bacon (1561-1626)

If only he knew… that death…that lurid tunnel of light and darkness, pleasure and pain…for some a release…for others a prison…death… is merely the beginning.

A dead doll.
How can a thing, such as a doll, ever die?
It never even had any life.
Did it?
Why, do you think yourself so different from this thing of porcelain and cloth and paint?
Do you really feel all that confident that your own bag of bones has so much more merit than this...thing?
After all it is a lot more permanent, and possesses a semblance of life that your own eyes...mirrors of the soul as they may be...will lose all too soon?
Does a doll have a soul?
Can a doll feel?
Can a doll…hate?

You better pray it can’t.