it is late, and the pale beach opens up to a void where the line between ocean and sky is disappearing. there is a barrel-chested man with wild hair slicked into great triangular sea salt swathes. he is OWLGLASS. like a ship's pitch and yaw he is on a fulcrum, he is uneasy... swinging between mania and dejection without any in-between. averse to eye contact, an enthusiast of violence, and prone to hyperfixations-- his mind is patchwork.