Hello. How intriguing to return to see that once again another has taken my name and posted here. How flattering. How completely dull and uninteresting his letter was, and I must wonder; is this what I am to you? So utterly arrogant and without substance. I had not thought it, but perhaps that is what I have become, what it _all_ has become. Void of life and meaning. Empty words on a page.

Yes, this gave me pause. How could it not?

But enough about that. I am not here to contemplate the mental stability of the author, or complain and bitch about the mortal player and his wild streak of sudden creativity. I am a proud fiend. Let me bow to his feet and give my thanks.

After all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, isn't it?

But onto the news of the day.

Vampire boys and girls, lean closer and let me bring glee to your pale faces while I say this. Another writer has entered the colessuem, one borne to me and eager to make his place in the literary world. For years now, it was the newest of our kind that sought to make history. Books. Films. The tell-tale autobiography that almost was but has since been abandoned by my newest fledgling. Still, he holds fast to the pen and on more than occasion I have heard of his passionate nights wrought with writing and deep contemplation.

It is old news now, but David seeks to record his story, or rather some deep dark forsaken _meaning_ to his creation. Whether or not I will be included in this half-baked novel is still a mystery.

To be sure, this new book will not be the awful truth, nor the tell-all sort that seems to empassion our kind now and then. It is a story. I reckon David has become quite the romantic in his old age and seeks to frantically record and place the past into some coherent order. Something to be studied, dissected and destroyed.

He claims that Rio de Janeiro drove into his very soul the desire to write. We all have our reasons, I suppose and Rio has been known to inspire. But whether it be the desire to twist the past into a little readable tale of mystery or intrigue, or to lose himself in the illusion of belonging to the mortal world, he is writing.

And so is Louis.

Which brings me to my next tidbit of news. Like the colorful newspapers on the shelfs with their vicious gossip, I come to you not in your dreams, but in the virtual world of Electronic Make-Believe to tell you that indeed, Louis is writing again and wishes to cross the line between truth and fiction once again.

I have not read what he has written. I refuse to read what he has written. I haven't the desire to stomache again the angst and slobbering seniments that lit the page of his first written declaration of our kind.

Did you know that he had written before? Away from the hustle and bustle of the world of print and publishers? His little tale is stowed away in the petit house of his ghost. A lovely woman she is, if not a little too mild and shy for my tastes. A lovely creature you are, Mademoiselle and you needed worry about my showing up on your doorstep demanding to know why you wrote such a strange and intriguing mix of fact and fiction. I know. I know why you did it.

I know everything.

The early morning I met this ghost of his, she glimpsed me only for a moment. A brief instant in time and I watched the emotions play on her face. Fear, disbelief... fear from the one who had listened night after night to the rustle of Louis's long coats and quiet voice soberly relating to her the events of our middle years together.

I'll end this now, hoping it finds it's way to you, Sharon. These days one never knows.

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I would like to see assassins smiling, the executioner who cuts off an
innocent head with his great curved oriental sabre.
I would like to see beggars and queens;
I would like to see roses and blood;
I would like to see those who die for love or else for hate!
And then later I would return and relate my adventures to those interested
in dreams.
Like Sinbad, I would raise my old Arabian cup to my lips now and then...to
interrupt my tale with artistry.

					- Sheherezade
                                                 
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