It is magnanimously understood by all members of the troupe that one must sacrifice the heart to receive the greatest gift of life. Which is, to be of the most convenience at the service of its master.
Without this weaving of the threads, we cease to have function and will lay atrophied in the doll wasteland.
Bill knew he did not ever want to become unwanted. But most of all, he would never be useless, where many of his brothers and sisters probably sat, never to do anything, eyes missing.
Striking his shiny shoes to slowly let the dim polish set, he propped his thick trouser legs up to seek his master. This includes running up the old rung and into the dusty plain. Brushing aside the rubble of open textbooks and empty ice lemon tea bottles, he found his seat to display himself.
He had an utmost important job to do.
“Master! Master!” he cried out loud.
He could not hear him, from so far down.
Straddling on top a notepad and balancing upon a teetering ballpoint pen, he reached out his mechanical arms forward, strings holding tighter.
“I am here, oh am I here!”
Jumping onto a Rubik’s cube, the pink plates falling solidly onto the damp table left with acid soda spilled from one too many nights of secret sugar highs.
“Can you hear me, Master?”
But he was brushed to the side, falling, then splat on the ground.
His eyes left his face. With a blink of a plastic eyelid, the black buttons were gone.
Toys can’t survive if you do not believe in them. When you grow up, their heart dies.