Mesh wiring, providing much digital pleasantry when touched and stroked. Filter beneath - a touching recognition of corporea limitation. Drooping, leathery cowl attached by bespoke snapping button at the temple. The stonetrimmer in my chambers promises that this faceless covering was purloined from the astromancer Yat-yat, a genuine practitioner of the gramarye. Incubus or succubus? I trust your taxonomical discretion, my dear Padulweis, but do I trust the stonetrimmer? He sweats when he talks, and when I do not. And also when he does not talk, and when I do. Discomfiting. I do not perspire, as much as I can control that human fluid. Perhaps he has the stench, the beady skin-juice on the upper and lower lips, because he tells the truth and already imagines Yat-yat's visitation to the pathetic stonetrimmers' longhouse, walking between the bunks, seeking the thief who sold that mask and who Yat-yat might still visit with untold torments of the flesh and mind. Or does he dab and kerchief his forehead because - no! Because it is not at all the true thing but a clever imitation designed to fool, and make fool myself. Padulweis, I write as if I have not made decision or judgment - as if now is not yet then - when I have already become executioner and gravedigger and smuggler of mystical facewears.