What the World Will Look Like When All the Mirrors Leave Us

This feels a little like an ode to orwell, but that comes later.
Thoughts? I feel like this needs to be read out loud, or screamed.
Not sure about the last little stanza; it's not complete, and I just scribbled it out in a fit. This isn't completed, I just need...opinions?
Not sure about the title either; it feels like cheating. I know what I want to say, I just can't.

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Perhaps we will run our hands over our bare naked bodies to feel the bruises, take swaddling-cloth into our spines, and attempt to cloak the hatred sprouting leaves from our ventricles - oh, the hatred that makes us want to discard all our boots; the boots lashed up to our knees in the thickest leather, unbending. It is a decision we know ourselves isn’t right, but unsettling things make most of us queasy and short-of-breath and just a little road-sick, craving gravel. Some may ask what it is to feel hollow. It is this.

Perhaps we will acid-wash away with all the denim in our genes, white-washed and strung up like fence posts, or hung by the ankles so all the blood rushes to our skulls and we forget that we aren’t fish and can easily swim. Perhaps our bodies will be left only in shadows seen scurrying from board to bed, dresser to table, begging for vitamin C, clinging waxen and achy to picture frames and those last long-forgotten faces. The message machine will ask us, “are your memories unsettling or are you already dead?” And they won’t see, but the faces - oh the acrylic and plaster and over-coats we don so luxuriously - will be peeling themselves away in sickness. The bodies will be filing into the blockade, lacing their masks tighter, taking a staple gun and bullet-proofing their jaws against words. Already, we will have lost so much and not realized.

Imagine, the extraordinary words will go first. Echolalia and soft mouths and bleeding, guttural, MIMSIES IN THE TRASH! Stuffed down the garbage disposal with desolation and flaccid handfuls of boyish hair and anamnesis, clogging - clogging up everything, every little morsel of good and doublegood and doubleplusgood and anything anyone ever thought or wondered or dropped into a street grate and fought to find. The intercom, the people will scream. The intercom. And oceans will eat the city because they are tired of living famished lives lapping up sand and carrion, and they have children to feed as well, and we never leave. Outside is another one of those words that will bleach-spot and mustard-stain itself to inscrutability and leave us wondering where we used to go and why. Sunlight means next-to-nothing if darkness is just the lights turned off or eyes closed. What is left to see beneath the curtain-folds?

We will conceal ourselves perfectly, encased in alabaster cells and wallpaper, never again to use these machines called bodies, perhaps out of vengeance or mirth or simply the human condition.