• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 11
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I mean, aren’t we all just paranoid entities comprised entirely of unruly hair, flaunting atrophic masks and preening like obsessive-compulsive narcissists?



One day the facial carapace will inevitably slip, you might feel it start to loosen, give way. The adhesive you’ve used simply wasn’t cut out for this kind of tenure. You feel an itch on the surface of your cheek. Don’t touch it! Someone might notice. Imagine how that might set off their anxious hyperhidrosis, and before long that’ll dissolve the glue that holds their face on too. And where will we be then? Anarchy, that’s where.

Watch from the corner of your eye. There’s a fissure widening between your cornea and your eyelid, with plenty eager to escape. It’s your choice; flee in panic, or remain there, paralysed, praying internally that it stays affixed.

Good, you’ve opted to stay. Not a choice really; your limbs wouldn’t obey even if you asked them politely.

Maybe it’s self-centred to think anyone has any time to be even remotely bothered with your appearance. All they can devote thought to is their own personal monomania, to which you are utterly irrelevant.


Stay calm, force your heart rate to drop with sheer domineering willpower. Keep the facade in place with your mind, if you can.

Just long enough for them to complete this damn ritual.