The World

	"You know the saddest thing," she said, "The saddest thing is that we're you."

	I said nothing.

	"In your fantasies," she said, "My people are just like you. Only better. We don't 
die, or age, or suffer from pain or cold or thirst. We're snappier dressers. We possess the 
wisdom of the ages. And if we crave blood, well, it is not more than the way you people crave 
food, or affection, or sunlight--and besides, it gets us out of the house. Crypt. Coffin.
Whatever. That's the fantasy."

	"And the reality is?" I asked her.

	"We're you," she said. "We're you, with all your fuckups and all the things that make 
you human--all your fears and loneliness and confusions... none of that gets better.

	"But we're colder than you are. Deader. I miss daylight and food and knowing how it 
feels to touch someone and care. I remember life and meeting people as people and not just 
as things to feed on or control and I remember what it was to /feel/ something, anything, 
happy or sad or /anything/..." And then she stopped.

	"Are you crying?" I asked.

	"We don't cry," she told me.

	Like I said, the woman was a liar.

- Neil Gaiman, "Fifteen Cards From A Vampire Tarot"