(Old draft because I have no inspiration for a new poem).

Masks are very popular here, porcelain stacking on plastic.

Aging is a curse, brought upon by only the worst of deities. Youth is beauty, youth is everything.

They treat the children very poorly, the only care being given is the constant plastering of thick creams and solutions.

Mask are very popular here, you can hide a wrinkle with makeup but not soul.

Souls are too authentic here. Too noticeable, just like wrinkles.

You can cry when you feel. You can scowl. You can howl.

We stitch these masks very thinly to your original skin, and don’t you worry, they look nothing like you, isn’t that fantastic?

It’s layered, every few months or years, depending on how little spirit you have. It’s a very intimidating thing: layers and depth, everything is as shallow as a puddle here.

We once saw a man smile, very long ago, in something called a photograph. It was…disturbing to see him so careless about how his skin had stretched, creased, very ugly and very unwanted. We burned the photograph instantly. You can’t mask a photograph of course, fool.

Masks are very popular here. We place the cracked ones on corpses. Every morning and every noon. The corpses vary, small to large, but we cut the fat off the large ones. There are only small corpses, children and adults.