He could not even see the images which I was seeing, so broken was his heart.
The supernatural world has always been more real to me than the real world.
That process by which you become a writer is a pretty lonely one. We don't have a group apprenticeship like a violinist might training for an orchestra.
But we are blessed to be tiny beings in this universe. We are blessed to feel momentous because we are larger than these grains of sand.
But vampires feel cold as acutely as humans, and the blood of the kill is often the rich, sensual alleviation of that cold.
Maybe I'll obey the rules. Some of them, anyway, who knows? What are you going to do if I don't, by the way, and haven't I asked you this before?