Lestat shakes his head, a motion that sways some hair from his face, communicates that whatever he was going to say is unworthy.

Fingers curling firmer around the cup in his hands, an anchoring. "I've been working on some compositions," comes out of his mouth, and he supposes, that's fine. "Nearly one hundred years since the last, so it seems like it might be time for me to create something new."

He can also do this. Work out what's left of him. What to make of it.