Cry, beloved passions! Cry while I am still alive to cry and feel the intensity of it! Oh, at the end of Tale Of The Body Thief, Lestat cried when he'd brought David into his world, and David was not mad at him. Together, they'd be, and he'd not be alone. For a little while, he had this comfort.

And that he could enjoy now the full delights of his life, never dreaming falsely of the old one, centuries ago. And PASSION! How I love that the WRITER, Anne Rice, has captured it, and knows passion!

How I love the MIND, from which all these things spring! And then I cry, remembering LAURA, for no other mortal I've met in the flesh evinced so much PASSION! She'd try to tell me of it, that it was what we needed in our lives.

I, still of the shy words and hesitent understanding, didn't fully realize. I still may not ever fully understand. It may be only a great cresting wave in my mind, that remains mostly there, that does not see print, that does not see its way pushed out of vocal chords and into other actions. I still toy at it cautiously, at times.

But that it explodes in my mind, with full technicolor, it does, and I can only hope to fully actualize it. Do we ever? Ah, but the AUTHOR of this fine book actualizes it in every book she writes. It comes to life, it is transformed from the entrapment within a mind no one sees.

Can I do that? I hope to, I toy at it, get some vague fuzzy dabblings of it that might approximate it here in print. But do I REALLY get at it? Do I really tear this excellent thing from my own solitary self and transform it?

Or am I only JUST BEGINNING to understand what true power is, and how I might achieve it? Reason, the observer which attempts to be objective, tells me this is the case. I am only at the perilous stage of BEGINNING. If I let illusion or ego or anything else, timidity, 'humility', any FALSEHOOD sway me the least, I will not achieve it.

It will derail from the path it COULD have. And this is the only triumph: THAT I TRULY KNOW IT COULD BE.

And how I pray it SHALL be.