He always had to take something. That was just his forte as a world-renowned artist.
On his bookshelf, he had a row of porcelain dolls that the world believed to be an expression of individuality.
Each one was different - they all had their own hair, one might have a necklace on, the other a pair of glasses.
He loved each one for their own beauty. He loved that he could use his tools to turn trash into a spectacle of wonder.
Yes, trash. Those girls never had much to offer anyway. Now they were art.
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