not find the words.
Lestat. Failing to find them.
can not really explain.
And what I feel. And how I feel.
I've always been a sentimentalist. Yes, always.
Just as if a part of me had melted. Was over. Destroyed.
Just as if I could not halt the tears of blood. Why was I
. Why was mine.
God Louis God, tell me. Why? Choose
kill with ruthless attention to where your disapproval?
Do you really win?
Or is it just that the Garden Wild shouts his freedom to be?
And, to increase the pain.
All those people who talk without really understand.
A competition to see who screams louder.
But what do they know? WHAT?
Paris is my soul.
But New Orleans was my heart.
Lestat.
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