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.