The Doll plush sits on your bed, staring off into nowhere in general, doing nothing except sitting nicely upright on the slightly creased bedsheets and being unmoved by your presence, maybe wishing to be cuddled, if it had a mind of itself. But it doesn't, and it won't have one, not when it's forgotten, not when it's played with, not when the sun will turn into a red giant in the limited time sum of 5.5 billion years and not when the universe will suffer inevitable extinction from the Big Rip. Its only purpose is to be, to exist, possibly for your pleasure or perhaps for decoration, perhaps it is some kind of object to be proud of. Either you care for it, or you don't, it sees no wrong or right, no moral and currency. All it does is sit. Sit on your bed. Maybe you'll tip it over? Or punch it in frustration because of a bad day at school? It won't feel its interior being squished and compressed to the outside of where you punched it. It won't feel anything, and won't be mad. Do however you please.