Her body was perfect, flawless. Every detail was carefully sculpted by the artist's old fingers. The beautiful face was gently smiling, and her hair tumbled down her back like a stony waterfall. She had an elaborate crown atop her gorgeous head. She held the sun in one hand, the moon in the other. Stars decorated her clothing. She was a perfect piece of art. A masterpiece. Her sculptor had spent his whole life dedicated to her perfect features. She was his lover, his wife had left him years ago because he would not cease work on her. But now, after years of work, he was finished. He stepped back to admire his priceless piece of art. He rubbed his sore hands, worn from continuous chiseling and sanding. He rested his weary eyes, strained from searching the smooth marble for cracks and flaws. He sat down at his workbench and cried salty tears of joy. He smiled and sighed with content. She was complete. After decades of dedication she was finally finished. His heart gladdened, he passed away blissfully. He had completed her, there was no need to continue. His hands and feet and eyes finally received rest. She was his love, his joy, his child, his statue.