The most difficult thing to achieve is to make them seem alive.
See that spark in their eyes; make their alabaster flesh supple and tender. And warm. They have to be warm, oh so warm, for them to be able to fall in love. In order for them to seem alive they have to be perfect in every way.
I am a master of my craft.
I labour over each creation. I put my time, my blood and my love into every stitch, every brush stroke, all so that they may fall in love. I have watched, as a father does, my creations go off into the world. Falling in love with young boys and old women alike. Seeing as their eyes would light up and colour would rush to their cheeks, as the people taking them in their arms held them tight. I let their happiness wash over me and I bask in the love that I have created.
After the unions cease, after their love stops filling my quaint home, I am content. For I have my work to return to, and such work to do!
When their love leaves this place, I return to my masterpiece, my love. I have laboured over her for years, carefully and painstakingly creating my own love. Her alabaster flesh is soft and pure, but cold, oh so cold. The stitches refuse to heal. Her eyes have no spark yet, but I am working tirelessly to return it to them, praying that the love pouring out of me is enough to fill them. I am a master of my craft, but the most difficult thing to achieve is to make her alive again.
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