It's midnight in New York City and the neon signs are distorted by the rain as they flash by through the backseat window of the taxi. There's a warmth in your belly as you settle into the pleasant buzz you've spent the last four hours cultivating. You've flitted from bar to bar, seen familiar faces everywhere, smiled and laughed, and wandered to the next destination, each parting a little sadder, each moment a little heavier. There's love in your heart and you want it to burst, but there's always something just a little off, you can't quite give it fully; it's backward. The people you see and the places you go just mask this feeling, and it surfaces in the silence left when conversation ceases. But hunched in the cab, hands shoved in your coat pockets, lights blurring by streets and avenues, there's a spark of hope, because you know there's purpose, and any ache or longing will someday be obliterated. Until then you'll just have to find one another in the little things. And that may, in fact, be enough. In that moment, you know what's important. You lift the corner of your mouth in a knowing smile, tilt your head back, and worry just a little less. So listen. Just listen. To the sounds of the city at night, to the sounds outside your window. This is the space in which Freak Owls dwell. They dream of love in cracks, the places in between, where the facades have crumbled. They love the broken city, yet keep an eye on the wide expanses beyond the skyline. In the dark, they are optimistic, automatic. There are visions and reveries, but this is where we are tonight, and no matter what elements surface to dull or derail our hope, Freak Owls are focused, guiding us to the fractals of light splayed across our rooms, and reminding us that we are not lost. Now. Freak Owls. Taxidermy. Can you feel it?