pull a face and it will stay like that

no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite grasp the exact moment when he had started to feel odd. and how could he have, really, when the spirit of the time screamed peculiarity as the new black and being ordinary was considered as the eighth sin. somehow, in the midst of it all, he had slipped; the wind had changed and the mask that he had so well worn had became his real face. he didn't recognize himself anymore and even breathing seemed to require a conscious effort -- like the body he inhabited was no longer his but that he had been put in it to keep it alive.