Vampire Lestat, here. But you knew that already, did you not? My words are instantly recognizable to you, dear reader, as much as a lover’s velvet whisper in the soft, warm night. There is none other who spins prose such as I, who crafts such delicate reflections and recollections for you to hold close, to cradle and treasure as the world’s most valuable pearl. My words to you, my most beloved reader, as usually far more affectionate intimations than these. You know how I want you to adore me as much as you no doubt despise the wickedness of my nature.
Lestat here, once again. I wish I had beautiful words for you – you, who deserves to hear decadent things. My words for you should skate over your skin with a touch softer than spider silk, like my fingers tracing over the line of your jaw, trailing over the curve of your delectable ear. Treasured reader, do not heed my forthcoming anger. Set this book down and turn your eyes to another of my more sublime accounts – succumb to me again, allow me to seduce you – no! I take it back, I need you now, do not turn your head or flip the page in hopes that this relentless melancholy runs its course and leaves behind the Lestat you already adore. Keep your attention fixated here, your eyes on me – I am such a delight for the eyes, how many times I have told you so?