The vagabond will come to you in the bruised black of night so keep an angel close by to reverse the collision in your digestive track. The voice will penetrate your outline, jagged starry sounds from a drooling unhinged jaw talking about something that resembles a spiritual awakening. You will become septic with acid blood, tears running down your neck, attempting to count the visions, pointing with seared fingertips. The first to die from misophonia. Lock your door.