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Kyle Wakefield has the spirit of an 18th-century romanticist not in the Poet-Laureate-to-the-King way but in the coughing-blood-into-a-handkerchief way. He disappeared into the Scottish wilderness alone one winter and came back with two scars on his chest which he claims are from top surgery, but are secretly entry points for the grapefruit-sized alien octopus controlling him parasitically. (It went in on the left-hand side first, but there weren't any brains there, so it had to try again.)
Kyle is currently sensing the Bit Paradox of referring to the octopus in the third person.