Many objects seem to harbor within them something of the soul: tools, books, pictures, and especially dolls.
Playthings in human likeness assume the lives given to them by the children who love them. Like portraits, dolls project the invested souls of their owners. And long after being relinquished, a doll continues to emanate a certain quality that enchants or disquiets us: that remnant or hint of the soul once breathed into it.
But few places act as repositories for these physical containers of the soul, or as restorative sanctuaries where the broken ones among such vessels may be made whole once more. And the number of such havens decreases with the passing of years. Who now has time to mend a doll, or have one mended? How much simpler it will be (or so we think) to buy another, and coax the child to adopt it.
Caught in the paradox of moving fast so as to move faster still—to save time, which we hope to sell ever more dearly as we age—we end up wasting our time. Finally, nothing is worth spending time to do, except to buy new things to replace the old, broken ones.