He dances frantically in front of a sort of barbed wire effigy of his mother. Barbed wire and nails jut out at every angle from the tee-pee like structure. A sad and chipped female mask sits atop the structure surrounded by dead roses, like a cracked and deeply disturbed angel above a very sick Christmas tree from hell. The empty eye sockets look out over Pyg's dance, saying nothing. Yet somehow Pyg can sense the disappointment. A "mommy made of nails" where "every hug is a crucifixion." He tears open his shirt, breathlessly chanting about goddesses of chaos while contorting his body in tune with the dance music he both adores and hates. Throughout the neurotic dance session, one can sense some very serious undertones of a severe oedipal complex. Finally, out of breath and exhausted from h