At 1831, I was in an old art gallery. I was left aside and abandoned, among paintings, pictures, and materials, motionless and trapped in a dark place. But I was raised there. Until everything around me, and me, was thrown away to build a news studio in 1884. The water brought me back to life. It shaped my body and my consciousness. I came out of the river, naked, as I was before. And I didn't see a problem with that. I listened to my sculptor prattling on about his personal life, his art. And I saw nudity as something innocent. Just as it should be. But people didn't. As soon as they saw me, they made me wear... Fabrics. Interesting, at most. I was walking around London. I didn't know exactly what I should do. I would like to meet Ophelia, my sculptor's lover. He loved her. And I kept thinking about it, until I looked to the side, and saw a sculptor, sculpting a body. I went into his room. At times like this, I wish I knew how to speak. Because he looked confused.*