Lestat's cigarette is more or less finished. Not much smoke has been breathed.
He presses the embering end into his fingertip, rolls burnt paper and leaf around under his thumb. He thinks about boxes, because he has spent many years replaying that one awful night in his head, counting every word spoken, scratching them all into the interior walls of his own skull even before it was all dedicated to print. Implications about the circumstances of the book's publication snake by him, allowed to pass. There is simply no world in which he can feel worse as Molloy speaks of the mysterious Dubai hours he has seen little glimpses of.
Ah, youth.
"Are you angry with us, Louis?" he asks, and he sounds a little far away, a drawl like an anchor dragging itself along the bottom of the ocean without anything to catch it.
But he looks across at him again. Blue eyes still ringed in red, still bloodshot, still bloodied at the borders of iris.
no subject
He presses the embering end into his fingertip, rolls burnt paper and leaf around under his thumb. He thinks about boxes, because he has spent many years replaying that one awful night in his head, counting every word spoken, scratching them all into the interior walls of his own skull even before it was all dedicated to print. Implications about the circumstances of the book's publication snake by him, allowed to pass. There is simply no world in which he can feel worse as Molloy speaks of the mysterious Dubai hours he has seen little glimpses of.
Ah, youth.
"Are you angry with us, Louis?" he asks, and he sounds a little far away, a drawl like an anchor dragging itself along the bottom of the ocean without anything to catch it.
But he looks across at him again. Blue eyes still ringed in red, still bloodshot, still bloodied at the borders of iris.