I am a chirologist of faces. I have no certification for my work but I look upon the mirror when I brush my teeth as though I were a professional behavioural specialist in a comprehensive diagnostic discipline. I am always diagnosing the blaschkopic landscapes of all the faces I see, but most of all I enjoy to dismantling my own. It often stresses me that the faces looking back at me, my very own reflection, is a mere mimicry of patterns that my eyes will never allow me to completely see. Upon my grandmother’s face, I see crevices of myself in near futures, enduring a complex enzymatic process, a post-ripening mould of epidermic patterns that arrive with age. A collective mosaicism of the human condition that I encounter at every shared gaze, behind it the sweet scent of a flower growing in the places those faces will never return to. I am a mere appearance, allowing the imaginary to illude a boiling pot of perpetual concerns.