Waits.

There is a troubadour who night after night — through a confluence of smoke, and ash, and alchohol-glaze — takes to stage with demonic rage to light his voice aflame.

“Ain’t no sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones,” his witch once barked. The shutters turned to dust, and the monotone-man shot his wife in the forehead.

This is why you shouldn’t smoke cigarettes.