My son, I have made you in my image.
But father, this cannot be. As you can see, I am ugly and disfigured.
It is because you have taken a blade and cut yourself beyond recognition.
I only cut to peel away the layers. My hope was to find my original form.
But my son, you have become fragments when you are meant to be whole.
But my hands…they have become blades, what am I to do? They do damage when I intend to do good, cut when I mean to nurture, rust when I mean to shine. I should put them away and live as if I have no hands at all. That would be better.
Give me your hands and I will make them hands again. Give me your broken pieces and I will make them whole.
And then what?
And then you will see what a man made in my image can do.