Sensory depravation chamber or Hand in mask

All through these random days
with a mask on my hand, with a crime that pays
without a voice, without a place, without a care
i am grains of wet sand conglomerating into smallish, giant piles
then dividing into predictable patterns of silence
my mouth, a teethy mess, a crimson nothing swallowing,
a gurgling volcano struggling to call out a name
throwing out strings of empty morphemes
colliding in massive formations - your eyes, yes then:

your eyes, they slowly realize the living vision of the ungod
projected in the mirror before you
the unwe that we separate into when we deny our singular state

and so,

no more prospects on the way to boredom
you've become everything they thought i'd ever be

(an eyelash broken tumbles, crashes through layers of structured logic)
"you've got to get real close, ya know, to see this kind of thing"

and though your empty successes were all it took for me
to move through the gates and find the owner
and scream scream scream out my anger
and release the beast of a notion
that his eyes had not given me the power
to know that every day is danger
and that every day is getting stranger,
i want to live free of my mind

so put the leathers down and disrobe
strip away the new for the old
forget the periods that separate distinct streams of thought
for we've made a place for you here in this bushy grove
a fresh hole, a cool cauldron where we make a magic that can alter states of being
and thus being slated for the next round of cuts,
i must prepare my things for the inevitable journey ahead,

for

i'm going to step into the dead black water
and lay myself down and shut the door
hook myself up to electrodes
and forever dream this day away,
as one last thought escapes me
"i wasn't really here anyway"
well, at least that's what the instruments say.