Baskin is what he dreams.
What starts out as a Lynch-tinged foreign procedural, kind of Once Upon a Time in Anatolia shot by Dario Argento, gets beserker and bloodier as the blackness bleeds forth and the night fills with frogs, and frogs, and regret, and red gels, and frogs.
Baskin is pain, beautifully red-streaked and eye-socketed, positively basking in it. A black and blue psychosis. Breathe, slowly, permanent breaths, and take it all inside of you. It will feel good, I promise.