Scarred hands claw at the cords of entanglement, we’d rather let go, let our eyes unravel the scene. God and culture are woven together; love and domination are coiled in the same skein. My friend complains we have no good patterns for going forward. How in the world are we going to make it through? We rub our scarred hands together, flesh on flesh, blood mingling with blood. We're not sure what we're creating, but it’s the best we can do.