(Versión en castellano más abajo)
Some day, not too long ago, I made one of my crazy experiments and stood on a shop window to work as a mannequin. I intended to watch people and their behaviour from that point of view, as well as analizing how long it'd take for them to realise that I was real and not a piece of plastic. You'd be shocked by the results.
Anyway, the very reason why I made it was my curiosity about mannequin's souls. They must have some kind of soul to cope with all the superficiality of the world they live in: always surrounded by atrezzo and cynicism, depending on a crazy artist that changes their memories every week. Or maybe this eternal waste of identities takes away all of their uniqueness turning them into the same sheeps that look at them from the other side of the window?
Mannequins are witnesses and victims of our crazes and ductility. They surrender to ages like us, and just like you and me, they die after an apparently perfect, fun and stylish life. How am I supposed to believe that they do not have a soul?
To be true, the more I know about people, the more human mannequins feel to me.
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