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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.