His mask is his only possession he could not live without.
It's much more than a mask: it's a face, his face, a wall keeping the horror of the outside world out, and the turmoil and grotesque voices roiling through him safely in.
Black and white, shifting and changing like the sands of time and like the crumbling society around him. Black and white, distinct and separate and unyielding, evil and good, dark and light, no and yes.
There is no gray.
There should be no gray.
But it's there.
Hazing on the edges of his vision, threatening to encroach on his strict world view, biting at his peripherals like so many dull razor blades intent on