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In the coldness of his rooms and the silence of his mind, he imagines her to be a gem. She is a fairy, captured at his whim, to be designed, but fashioned in his mind, sculpted, tempered by his forge and his fire. She’s delivered to him in a crate and wrapped in plastic, merchandise to be consumed. Oh how he trembles, unraveling the ropes in his hands which will initiate his terrible ecstasy, the advent of his type of love. Without her, he is dead. Without a succession of fairies into his palace, he is made of wood. And so he buys another girl. He readies her, his new acquisition. And he molds her and causes her to suffer.

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