When I'm Writing, The Darkness Is Always

How Shameful. How Predictable! How Insipid. And How Sweet.

Nothing In All The World Is So Nonsensical And Contradictory, Save Mortals, That Is, Who Live In The Grip Of The Superstitions Of The Past.

And This Lesson About Mortal Peace Of Mind I Never Forgot. Even If A Ghost Is Ripping A House To Pieces, Throwing In Pans All Over, Pouring Water Of Pillows, Making Clocks Chime At All Hours, Mortal Will Accept Almost Any "natural Explanation" Offered, No Matter How Absurd, Rather Than The Obvious Supernatural One, For What Is Going On.

I Saw The Light,saw The Myriad Spirits Flying Loose Up The Tunnel Towards The Celestial Blaze, The Tunnel Perfectly Round And Widening As They Rose And For One Blessed Moment, One Blessed Tiny Instant, The Songs Of Heaven Resounded Down The Tunnel As If Its Curves Were Not Made Of Wind But Of Something Solid That Could Echo These Ethereal Songs, And Their Organized Rhythm, Their Heartbreaking Beauty Piercing The Catastrophic Suffering Of This Place-lestat

I Love You Still, That's The Torment Of It. Lestat I Never Loved. But You! The Measure Of My Hatred Is That Love. They Are The Same! Do You Know Now How Much I Hate You!