(CONTINUED from AUTHOR BIO)To Lestat My writing of the book seems that of memory. But my writing of the book is LOVE ; because Love dwells in Memory Lestat. And because Love dwells in Memory, my writing of the book is the same as I LOVE YOU. So I Love You. With Love, and thereof Memory, With Memory, and thereof Love, Red-breasted Tongueless Bird Tearing the Sky throatily, Ariel Wolfe * * * * * There has been a lot about Love. And this book may tell 'about' the same. However, it is different because it was originally written for the sake of a melancholy Genius who constantly is to be replenished with a nightly dose of novel passion, and because it is written by a passionate Asian woman whose mind is always seething with fleeting thoughts and imagination and whose heart is full of passion, pity and love. Apparently it is a love story in a form of verse extracted from over 1,200 letters between an Asian poetess and an American musician (or a Vampire and a Vampire-Lover; or simply two Pain-kissers) that have never met in person but through music and internet, and pain - And both egos are alike in that they hated the world from the bottom of the guts, although they emulated each other in demonstrating how much they loved the world - yet at once they always wanted to create something more than the world. It is not about pinky rosy weakling Love. It is much of blood from naked soul. It is a voice unique, something else than human that has been sleeping in the human. And it is not for people. Pain is how these two souls were connected at first and Passion comes in place. To quote her: "Without pain, neither pleasure nor happiness can be. Even beauty, without suffering, cannot be true beauty enduring. Sheer happiness, with passion castrated, is simply incomplete. Therefore, it is about pleasure, happiness, beauty and passion embracing pain within." -Editor M. Channdler- * * * * * Introduction October 3, 2004, I release the heavy fardel long-loaded upon my soul into the lighted world, from my own secret terrain, that darkly shadowed nook of my heart, encysting a seed of ever-implacable fire, hotly transfused into the pith of my bone, marked by a rebellious sensation of constant burning. Amongst all those humanities, ghosts and specters, aged and ageless, formed and formless, somewhere distant by a half round of the planet, there existed an eclipsed ego of a Genius, J. Lestat S., a soul kindred to mine who managed, Oh blind God, to crash into my soul this life again on that narrow path of fate, with all the labyrinthine, slow snaky trails that seem interminable, heavily packed with the despairingly huge, pitiably blind multitude of crowd aimlessly revolving among. Oh, blind God, You there over stared at us, that, Ah, look of fate, of permanent pity and apathy, of indelible mark of lugubrious memory, and of implacable hunger and of unspeakable grief ever unfathomed so far and forever. Amidst an irreparable fever, Besieged by a thickened air of exile, And in the spinning axis of time, Ariel Wolfe from the counterpoint shore-end of the Haven of origin * * * * * To the Reader: With Tears, Liquors & Roses Ah, Lord, I cannot speak, for I am a child. [Jeremiah 1:6] We were two isolated continents parted by the gaping gulf of grieved water whose rumpled page margins were not to be met together, nor whose benign surface to cut short to bump together, or whose hospitable current to dwindle to one slim graceful confluence to crash together. Such is the same as the wor
