In these months of absence ...
In these months of absence.
None. None.
What a strange word for a being that has existed for 244 years.
many months, how many years absence.
None.
feelings.
circumstances.
of subtle and exhilarating moments.
Sometimes I feel distant from me. Maybe I should sleep.
die a little.
I lost a house, a few months ago.
Maybe you think it is silly of me.
After all, they're just things.
And that house, after all, had always been an uncontested domain of Marius.
the time of his recent love for the Little Monster.
Yes, my silk butterfly.
I had seen for the first time in 1907, a few years before returning to New Orleans permanently.
was a big house in the English colonial style.
And it was in the midst of the sea.
Unica. Magnificent. Perfect.
had bought it almost immediately.
Marius has made his home since the beginning preferred the 30s, while I slept, say, for lack of interest in to the world.
Maybe things are really just things.
But for a vampire, this vampire, every detail has a unique charm, and renounced. Unparalleled
memory.
Light, sound, color, fragrance.
trees and sea. Wind. The rustle thin.
The stars, the dim light the lamp of the porch.
The spicy smell of the kitchen, now distant memory of admissions, the rocking chair creaking on the dark wood. The bed pillows
from large bright green, the desk of Marius.
When I want to live my NY is part of the world.
When I fall in love I admire my wisteria Roman.
In times of loneliness, in times like this, just my little house in Paris granted me asylum.
But when I, too, even the splendid and tireless vampire, she needed a tiny moment of serenity rewarding, it was there that I came.
Now there's nothing left.
The sea has taken everything away.
The sublime moments of love, the ebony table in the living room.
Everything.
None.
months of loneliness.
Louis in New Orleans. The Little Monster
here. A Paris.
I can feel the throbbing too fancy at this time.
David knows. In some remote region of Tibet, maybe.
Or in Rio, with Malloy.
Solitude. I do not want
to see any of them.
Not so, not now.
I will not try. No.
Seeking applications.
Passion.
Illusion of a feeling that I can not understand.
The only small, happiness is Florence.
My beautiful Florence, 187 cm vulgar innocence.
I look at it twice and it is me.
will be at least 5 years flying in the same place this way.
is standing there on the corner waiting for customers.
always smiling, in her short skirt with sequins in his amazingly unnatural blonde wig.
beats during the day, Florence.
I wish I could give the address of my little home here, near Abbesses, so you can also remain intoxicated by her look happy.
Once I said to one of you. Other
memories.
Florence.
Recently, the evening does not work very much.
The invitation here for a few hours.
I'm a good customer for Florence. Perhaps, even, a friend. I offer
of you I do get just for her.
smiles. He says.
savor her pauses, looks and accents.
A life like mine. Maybe that's why I understand.
Maybe that's why I have not done mine.
carelessly touches the lives of others in a moment of confusion, passion and blood.
Florence and Lestat.
Then the cup is empty.
and paid.
Lestat
