The World<br /><br />"You know the saddest thing," she said. "The saddest thing is that we're you."<br /> I said nothing.<br />"In your fantasies," she said, "my people are just like you. Only better. We don't die or age or suffer from pain or cold or thirst. We're snappier dressers. We possess the wisdom of the ages. And if we crave blood, well, it is no more than the way you people crave food or affection or sunlight - and besides, it gets us out of the house. Crypt. Coffin. Whatever."<br />"And the truth is?" I ask her.<br />"We're you," she said. "We're you with all your fuckups and all the things that make you human - all your fears and lonelinesses and confusions... none of that gets better.<br />"But we're colder than you are. Deader. I miss daylight and food and knowing how it feels to touch someone and care. I remember life, and meeting people as people and not just as things to feed on or control, and I remember what it was to feel something, anything, happy or sad or anything..." And then she stopped.<br /> "Are you crying?" I asked.<br /> "We don't cry," she told me. Like I said, the woman was a liar."<br /><br />Fifteen Painted Cards From A Vampire Tarot