O _______ how you are all facade. You are my pygmalian tale, I the sculptor who tries to form you. You respond to all things visual, but you lack cultivation. I do not yet know if a warm heart exists in you. A throbbing heart that swells when it warms. Are you moved by words as by images? Do you shiver at feelings as by sights? Or ______, the statuette, do you only know to see but not to feel. Is your heart cold stone. I wish to take you elsewhere, abroad, to a new land, where you might transform by your sensations. I do not know whether you would have sensations at the sight or at yourself. I see you well ________, the stone face, that has such longing eyes. It stares out on to distance, and yet greets them because it sees. This makes you proud. You stand in motion, both as if moving ahead and dancing. There is something shallow about this. I see nothing within you; you are all facade. At you there is much to look, but little to love. I see you too proud and too vain. You want to be loved, but you will never be loved well.



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