Quando na escola, sonhava em ter um jeep. Sonhava muitas coisas, e poucas delas coincidiram com a realidade, em boa parte porque fui perdendo o interesse e desacreditando em tudo. Mas ano passado pude comprar o meu primeiro carro, e comprei um jeep preto. Sinto mais conforto rodeado pelo preto; roupa preta, carro preto. O preto pra mim virou descanso.

Hoje à noite fui em São Paulo/SP, e na volta aproveitei as rodovias concedidas pra deixar "Spiral Static" e todo o álbum "Showbiz" tocando em volume estridente, escancarar as janelas do carro, acelerar e voltar a 160 km/h como se estivesse voando pelas nuvens da noite. Estava frio, e o volume estava tão alto que tenho certeza de que os demais transeuntes me ouviam passar. A única tristeza foi a de saber que ninguém estava comigo pra ver aquele momento. Eu me senti tão bem e tão vivo; me senti completando a imagem vampiresca que o meu eu do passado tinha do meu eu futuro.

Nada, ultimamente, tem me dado a mínima alegria, e não tenho motivação sequer para perder peso ou me empenhar em um jornada acadêmica. Eu tenho a felicidade de ter uma vida tranquila, mas sequer tenho alguma paixão pra me mover pra mais algum lugar. Talvez me aconteça como Akasha e Enkil, talvez eu vire uma estátua de mármore. Seria um bom momento para me afundar na terra e dormir por mil anos.

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“And you? What will you do?” Nebamun didn’t answer.

He looked at his friend. “I don’t know, Santh,” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“You never found Sevraine, did you?” asked Santh.

“No.” Nebamun shook his head. “I found Rhoshamandes once, but he knew nothing of her by the time I found him.” Again they stared into the flames.

“What do you want, Nebamun?” asked Santh.

“I don’t know, Santh. I don’t know.” He picked up a loose stick for no good reason, and began to make scratch marks in the earth. He made a long line twisting and turning, which he thought of as a road. Not a particular road in a particular place. But the road of his life.

“It’s all finished, Santh,” he said. “I’m tired. I don’t know the people of Egypt now. I haven’t known them for as far back as I can really remember, and the times before that, they’re like a dream, a bad dream.” He could see by Santh’s expression that he didn’t understand. His green eyes were lively, and almost cheerful except for the sadness he felt for his friend.

“Stay with me, then,” said Santh. “Don’t go back this time. Stay here!” A long silence fell between them. Nebamun realized he was weeping and he was ashamed.

He felt Santh’s arm over his shoulder, and he said in a soft voice to Santh, “This is your world, my friend, I have no world now.”

A terrible sadness crumpled the face of Santh. He wasn’t ashamed to cry. He hated the blood coming from his eyes and he wiped at it angrily with the fur of his sleeve, but he wasn’t ashamed.

“You cannot give in to this!” he said. “This is like a sickness, this feeling. You have to find a place somewhere. You have to find something. You and I were there at the beginning! Who’s left who was there at the beginning? We must continue—.”

Very softly through his tears, Nebamun asked, Why.

(Anne Rice, "Prince Lestat and the Blood Communion").