If these growths were appearing in the ocean or the sky or on trees or rocks say, we might well marvel at the beauty and the intricacy of the patterns, the wonderful variety inherent in nature.
But this is human skin the neurofibromas are appearing on - and therefore the sight (and the fascination with seeing) can't be cast as anything but ugliness, abject mutation, even horror.
If our skin can't be perfect, many of us will nevertheless pursue dermatological perfection for the whole of our lives, until we die and our skin literally rots off the bone. Like cancer or tumours, neurofibromas are human growth, life itself as horror. Growth as farce, as satire.
Like a painting with too many brushstrokes by an artist who didn't know when to say enough - this life, this growth - is too much of a good thing, spoiling the creation, making it unsuitable for anything but the reject pile.
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