"Oh, but I bet you could come up with something on the fly," he goads. How can Lestat argue in the face of Daniel's total faith in his artistic soul? C'monnn.

Poetry is rough, though. Daniel, a writer, has no knack for it. No artist's brush for his journalistic endeavors, just a sledgehammer and a knife. At least it worked well enough to pry Louis free of his prison.

(The warden of which now haunts Daniel.)

"You told me you want to be a rock star. Seems to follow the same track. Do you actually want to tour?"