Life has never ended, only started. The light will never rise. What I would give to see the light of the sun rising over the horizon. I used to see the light every day, Louis my Louis, if you ever read this journal after I am gone, remember if I die I will see the light of the sun one more time before I leave.
Today, Lestat has shown me his worst, or in his mind best, hobby. His favorite way to kill. he will never mention this out loud, but he lours his victims out with his mind, buys them a late dinner or a drink, then he brings them to some highly populated spot and hides in the shadows and kills them. Always breaking every rule. I guess that is why I always have had a flare for the overly dramatic, following his example. Of course I also kill them swiftly following Louis's example. Unlike Louis I don't hold their deaths against myself.
A poem that Louis read to me:
[u]A Red, Red Rose[u] by Robert Burns
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.
After this poem Louis stopped reading for a while and sat in his red velvet chair. He must have thought that I was not listening. he always thinks that. I stop moving, only the small lifts of my chest as I breath show that I am alive. I look distant, but I don't think about anything. To him I must look like a porcelain doll with my perfect golden curls bouncing slightly in the wind.
Today, Lestat has shown me his worst, or in his mind best, hobby. His favorite way to kill. he will never mention this out loud, but he lours his victims out with his mind, buys them a late dinner or a drink, then he brings them to some highly populated spot and hides in the shadows and kills them. Always breaking every rule. I guess that is why I always have had a flare for the overly dramatic, following his example. Of course I also kill them swiftly following Louis's example. Unlike Louis I don't hold their deaths against myself.
A poem that Louis read to me:
[u]A Red, Red Rose[u] by Robert Burns
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.
After this poem Louis stopped reading for a while and sat in his red velvet chair. He must have thought that I was not listening. he always thinks that. I stop moving, only the small lifts of my chest as I breath show that I am alive. I look distant, but I don't think about anything. To him I must look like a porcelain doll with my perfect golden curls bouncing slightly in the wind.
