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Time Indifference

Time is time.
The minutes, days and hours.
And be alone, at any time.
us and you.
Suns.
But what these moments mean, maybe it's different.
For you precious moments of life.
For us mere existence.
exist and live.
It could be death to give a purpose to life.
to accentuate the uniqueness of blinding.
might.

But, some fatal, nothing has meaning.
not a matter of shopping bags and children to care for and dishes to wash and sleepless nights and work and money.
It 's something that you do not try.
Especially something that is there.
missing and it makes no difference. Maybe they do not even try
death.
There is simply nothing.

Sometimes you see me in only a beautiful young boy.
me smile.
want my hair, my blue eyes.
Maybe it's just gotten too good at pretending not to be death, then, in fact, are.

Sometimes, however, I read it in his eyes.
I feel the breath become faster, the blood beat faster.
And understand.
not, perhaps, a coherent thought. But clear.
And at that moment, that precise moment, that you can not help but want what I can give you.
Estarsi. Knowledge.
and death.

But no. Contact
? Maybe.
Intimacy? Maybe.
Perhaps, in that sublime moment, give me all you want for yourself.
But no.
no comparison.

I catch.
Carpio as a thief in your emotions.
I'm going with your life in hand, full of what they were.
But you, what you can get from me?
Ecstasy? Passion?
But who am I?
What are you?

hear your thoughts, feel the love.
But it is only the magic of the kiss.
only the charm of the blood.
I cheat.

No, there's no comparison.

Lestat

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Indifference.

Have I not done my whole life a work of art? I have not bled
always sacrificing himself on the altar of madness and passion?
I have not loved and fought and won and loved again?
How can you, as you can say I'm indifferent or cold?
that I live to find a limit, if any.
that I live to see the essence, then, if one exists under the trees in this wild garden.

Or, perhaps, lying to myself.
-would have something really unusual-
Maybe I just decided, over the centuries, only to leave short pleasures distracted.
infatuation of orders, waiter, elderly landlord.
But only sometimes. Only the most precious.
So different from my serial killer. So deeply
empty.

Cut the fingers of a child.
Slowly.
What you should try? What
while the flesh is torn? What
floor while the bone is broken under the pressure of the knife?
the boy's screams muffled and distant.
fading. No matter.
Start the little finger and then, gradually, one finger at a time.
Road. Middle
.
Index.
thumb.
And already over.

I saw him do hundreds of times.
cut the fingers of one hand, so the kids could use the other to work with the help of the stump.
And I wanted to try, I wanted to know what it meant to him, what it must feel to do so.

And now I know.
Now I have lived and felt.
I stole his vision and his emotions.
Now I know.

That Kill.

useless beings do not interest me, though it may feel good to merge with them.
As the stale smell of wool slippers can break my heart.

Lestat.

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Funny

I wonder What people had so much fun. If the wound

ME is particularly amusing.
Maybe it's a kind of game. So there
the Vampire, Lestat is just an idea, a soap bubble.
Can not live, can not suffer. Being able to hurt your
ME, the Vampire.

Or is it simply to have a pulpit from which to speak.

'm really sick of all this.
I can ignore, but I can not forget and emotions.

Someone else want to hurt the Vampire Lestat?

The knife sinks slowly down my arm.
The blade penetrates deeply, even if the blood gushing plan.
As you will be healed, Just reopen it.

A fun game.