THE VALLEY OF DOLLS:

I step through the threshold, greeted by air of ice, night becomes day, days of corruption. In the yoke of time.....the dawning of day becomes an unnecessary evil, proclaimed necessary by money's henchmen. It is a darkness I must fight, a darkness that is without the light of knowledge - this is fuel for the crusade.

As I proceed to crusade and war I pass the building of a monument unaware. The monument is the building of a house, the place of man. How could this happen? How could I pass such an event without being aware of it? The task, the art of building house, raising home was passed like a mere pebble or of mediocrity. I take a closer look. I begin to see why my mind failed to register this event.

Malice rises, spirit burns. The completion of the house made was as if it was to be placed on the shelves of society's shopping kings. It was placed on the shelf with all of the other plastic wrapped dolls. It was there with all of the other wrapped dolls in their pretentious nakedness. The dolls glistened in the wrapping of cellophane and cardboard, "dolled up" were they. Dolled up with their false eyelashes and eyebrows, consistent of dormers and trim, their dangling jewels, brass jewels, that seem to be melting chandeliers from the over abundance of style and facadism.

The dolls wrapped in cardboard and synthetic fibers were, however, indeed clothed, but they showed a fear. A fear that frightened them so. A frightened anguish that caused them to squeal as if they were naked and never knew how beautiful nude skin really was. The dolls sneered and cackled with their behavior of decoration and disillusioned nobility. Four inch thin arches and grilled glass were the eyes and honor of these painted dolls...what a disdained honor.

What fuel, what ignition, what overpowering rage for the crusade that now exists as I yell from my belly, "welcome to the valley of the dolls!"

I clasp spear and sword, the death of the dolls has now come, the purging of the valley is here.

- Derek Hudson