I Don't Believe In Anything And That

Revenge Is The Concern Of Those Who Are At Some Point Or Other Beaten. I Am Not Beaten, I Told Myself. No, Not Beaten. And Victory Is Far More Interesting To Contemplate Than Revenge.

It Was As If The Empty Nights Were Made For Thinking Of Him. And Sometimes I Found Myself So Vividly Aware Of Him It Was As If He Had Only Just Left The Room And The Ring Of His Voice Were Still There. And Somehow, There Was A Disturbing Comfort In That, And, Despite Myself, I’d Envision His Face.

For Always In Her There Was A Dark Place Full Of Despair And A Great Dividing Force To Make Meaning Because There Was None.

I Like Mainly To Be Invisible, To Sort Of Drift Around Unseen In The World.

Yet I Saw Crypts When I Looked At Him, And I Heard The Beat Of Kettledrums. I Saw Torchlit Fields Where I Had Never Been, Heard Vague Incantations, Felt The Heat Of Raging Fires On My Face. And They Didn't Come Out Of Him, These Visions. Rather I Drew Them Out On My Own. Yet I Never Had Nicolas, Mortal Or Immortal, Been So Alluring. Never Had Gabrielle Held Me So In Thrall. Dear God, This Is Love. This Is Desire. And All My Past Amours Have Been But The Shadow Of This." — Lestat De Lioncourt