Necessary wardrobe murder updates: purple sunglasses, which are currently worn on his head; black leather boots to the knee, tall thick heel, red lacing; and now, a flashy leather jacket, square studs filling the lapels and the shoulders, a silver sheen to the black, some dry blood flaking at the collar.

It's a good topic of conversation, Lestat willing to engage with his phone enough to load up suggestions for later listening. A murmur now and then, recognising the work of some of them. There is a certain amount of disconnection, as if all his music encounters in the past century have been out of context in some way, belated, or believing them to be more recent than they are. Has Daniel heard of the Pixies? A different kind of context to a man who would brag about knowing certain maestros personally.

Slow, the process of sinking back into time. Music isn't the worst way to begin, its own evolution.

"Me too," Lestat says, eyes still on his phone. "I feel like it used to be only composers and musicians cared for what good music was. Now the clerks in Walmart choosing the playlist for their shift have the tastes of the sophisticate."

A little sardonic, but also: his point stands. Daniel has, comparatively, a great ear.