Lestat said a thing nights ago that has continued to plague my thoughts. He said, though not in anger, “you’ve lost your soul.” It was not to say I am soulless, rather only much changed. I’m not certain he is right, but I wonder.
I dreamt of Armand when last I slept. Oh, it has eluded me. Of what did I dream? I awoke confused, not troubled, as if I were answering his specter a question I could not. What did he want? Was it the same blank book I have desperately tried to read him in past dreams, frantically inventing the words? What did I dream? I hope it revisits, this moment, so that I may satiate the nagging haziness of my own imperfect recollections.