The breeze is strong tonight, and the sky darker then usual, even for this time of night, feels as if the whole world is being smothered by the black clouds that hover above.

I think it will storm tonight.

As if willed by the very thought, a bolt of electrifying lightening lit up the darkness, rumbling grumbling thunder followed. Heaven and Hell�s never ending battle, angels striking down the demons, hell roaring back an angry reply. A never ending out cry of hatred.

Sheltered by the roof of this Parisian caf�, I sit under a brightly colored umbrella, holding a warm fragrant cup of tea. Soothing, the aroma of honey wafts from the china glass, as my fingers dance along the intricate paintings of flowers that appear to grow upon the rim. Black lace gloves, finger tips cut off, hide the marble flesh of my hands, as they run over its smooth surface.

The downpour of raindrops chases everyone indoors, to the heat and security of the stable building. I much prefer the caf� porch, besides, the rain only seems a drizzle to me, and out here, I have no need to worry about my unearthly appearance, the looks of a living marble statue. A roman goddess.

I still wear my ever present eye apparel though, the gold glasses that cover my jewel-like irises. Too startling to keep uncovered, I never take off these glasses around mortals, too appalling to see the mix of topaz and sapphire embedded there.

Ah� the fresh smell of this moisture that falls from the sky, like aloe on a wound. A bicyclist speeds by, spraying water from a puddle in my direction. Rain water splashes upon the knee high boots I wear, droplets sprinkle the velvet material of the cleaving skirt I wear. The puddle did not extend to my shirt though, partly due to the cloak draped upon my shoulders. I loved the feel of this shirt, purple satin, that still exposed my slender arms. Of course, Marius had bought me the ensemble, the shirt definitely proves this; he always remarked that I had beautiful arms.

A gust of wind blew back my hood, causing my hair to spill forth, shining and luminous, floating in the breeze. At last, it settled. The wavy sepia veil cascaded down my shoulders, glistening over the woolen fabric of my cloak. My hair, one thing I have pride for in my appearance, the lovely thickness, its luster, oh just the whole allure of it.

On the table, next to the tea, rests this notebook, a pen with an eternity of ink rests in between my fingers. To others I seem in deep concentration, unfazed by the weather due to it, fiercely scribbling down words in patterns that form sentences and paragraphs on the neat blue lines of the paper.

The last time I wrote like this was when David Talbot had visited me, bringing with him a pair of leather bound notebooks. Using his charm and calm ways, he persuaded me to put my story in its entirety, both mortal and vampire years, on paper. I wasn�t about to yield to his desire, but something called to me, whether it was the sharp sound of pen meeting paper, or the need to reveal my past, I do not know. But I did it, and they are now in the safe clutches of David.

Soon afterwards, I journeyed to New Orleans, in search of Marius and Lestat. I found them, Lestat still lay upon the ground of the chapel, paralyzed by his experience with Memnoch the Devil. I suppose I would be as well if I had had a tour of heaven and hell. I did not stay long though, once again I was off, exploring the lands as a loner.

Traveling through countries, setting foot on all continents, speaking many different tongues, savoring blood from all races. The things you learn when wandering, I acquired large amounts of knowledge, and even some artifacts, such as an original copy of Ovid�s masterpiece �Amores�. I recited lines from this work to Marius when I was just a child, amazing him with my intelligence of Ovid.

Sighing, another streak of lightening brightens the sky. Reminding me of the present time.

I have returned from such expeditions, weary of traveling, eager to see my loved ones again.

Marius, Marius my love. He will be a delightful sight to see again, and maybe I can keep my opinionated thoughts toned down this time around, and there will not as many disputes. But I doubt I can perform that task. You know me, Marius. Perhaps better then I know myself. Hopefully our love will bloom once again, the rose in a garden of thorns, it is pricked, plucked, separated from its petals, but always grows back, in the very same patch of dirt. That is our love, my maker. That is our song that never ceases to be sung.

Home, that is now my destination. Home to where everyone else dwells, the rest of our immortal family. The cherub Armand, our Brat Prince Lestat, my beloved Scholar David, the Beautiful Louis, the newly created Sybelle and Benji. To everyone I have not mentioned, I will get to converse, glimpse into their lives, speak of priceless memories.

The pen runs dry, I have used up its supply of ink already. I must end my writing, end this journal.

I am ready to leave anyway, start on the �Devil�s Road� home. The summer storm will not prevent me passage to my loved ones. The pain of loneliness will be extinguished, and the joy of love will reign instead.

So here, in this writing, I have opened to you Pandora�s box, letting the hopes, fears, and dreams flow from my heart and into your minds. I have revealed to you myself, the soul that animates this marble form.

And with this last revelation clinging to your thoughts, I depart. This Child of the Millennia, signs off, leaves the darkness, and walks in the light.

March 20, 2001
12:25pm