He did not used to wear a face, because he was every face. Every face. He wears one these days, but they always fall off eventually.

Sometimes he imagines himself curled on a bed made of all the bodies of all the lovers he'd ever had, and all around him were all his faces.

The image is not a comforting one.

Veils and masks, he thinks. They're the same thing, after all. Both hide. Both conceal. Both lure.

"Think this is my real face?" he murmurs to whoever the hell it is he's currently fucking, and gets nothing but noises in response.

Nothing but noises. He imagines his face falling off onto his lover at some point. He imagines a mask with a turgid phallus sticking out of the mouth and laughs, softly, into his non-lover's hair.

He thinks he might be sick.