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[The journal clicks on at the far end of twilight, and the blurring image gradually resolves into a sharply-focused view of a dead fawn strewn with white and purple crocuses. White tea candles halo the little head, which is thrown back. Its tiny thin legs look as though they are leaping across the red-tinged snow.
Anyone who is paranoid about vampires in general -- or who is looking REALLY closely -- might see two tiny, clean puncture holes in the fawn's neck.
The following text soon appears beneath the image:]
I have made a spring picture. Everything melts and runs, and the ground is thirsty for secrets. And empty of them.
[So writes a vampire who is homesick for tombs and crypts and graveyards. This place is so barren of them. It won't do. Won't do at all. Still, she is pleased to have made this beautiful art out of a much-needed meal. Angelus would be pleased, too.]
Anyone who is paranoid about vampires in general -- or who is looking REALLY closely -- might see two tiny, clean puncture holes in the fawn's neck.
The following text soon appears beneath the image:]
I have made a spring picture. Everything melts and runs, and the ground is thirsty for secrets. And empty of them.
[So writes a vampire who is homesick for tombs and crypts and graveyards. This place is so barren of them. It won't do. Won't do at all. Still, she is pleased to have made this beautiful art out of a much-needed meal. Angelus would be pleased, too.]