"Photograph lasts a hell of a long time, you put it in a frame."
Not even in a frame. Louis' photographs in archival boxes, carried out of Paris. Preserved. Moments frozen in time. Claudia, smiling with her fangs out. Her impromptu snaps of Louis across the table in a Parisian cafe. Her at her dressing table, applying her lipstick. Pulling a face at him. Little moments that are so painful to look at, just as the diaries were agony to touch for so long.
But no. Louis pulls himself back.
"Anytime I ask?" he questions. "Twelve performances, whenever I ask you?"
Louis had never had to ask. But they are a long way away from their home, Lestat's well-cherished piano, their well-appointed salon.
no subject
Not even in a frame. Louis' photographs in archival boxes, carried out of Paris. Preserved. Moments frozen in time. Claudia, smiling with her fangs out. Her impromptu snaps of Louis across the table in a Parisian cafe. Her at her dressing table, applying her lipstick. Pulling a face at him. Little moments that are so painful to look at, just as the diaries were agony to touch for so long.
But no. Louis pulls himself back.
"Anytime I ask?" he questions. "Twelve performances, whenever I ask you?"
Louis had never had to ask. But they are a long way away from their home, Lestat's well-cherished piano, their well-appointed salon.