In the first panel, you are ostrich bodied, human head perched atop the characteristic long neck, ready perhaps to take off, to fly, to flee at near cheetah speed, a hole in the sand in front of your feet where a second ago your head may have been. Is this your triumphal hour, Ostrich Boy, debut of your offbeat power?
In the second panel, you are all human, slouched in a mean chair, mean suit, a posture and look of dissipation, holding a glass bottle by the neck, the jagged peaks of its broken bottom pointed toward your face, slivers protrude from your mouth, some have dribbled onto the floor around your feet. Is this debauch how your story begins, Ostrich Boy, flashback to your secret origins?
With great power comes great responsibility. And absolute power corrupts absolutely. Where does that leave you, Ostrich Boy? So false you can only be true. Maybe you can never tragically fall when you make no sense at all.