By the incandescent light I have my papers, or my charcoal, or my canvas and I work, late, until my body cannot take anymore and I collapse into a tired heap amid those sheets, and my eyes, burning, shut in grateful sleep. Only in sleep do the clogs of my whirring mind grind to a halt, and those far deeper begin to stir, bringing forth strange dreams not to be recalled by the morning light which fights to break through the crimson curtains hiding me from the world.
In the night's quiet much can be accomplished, and I make the most of what I can, when I am not vexed by the temptation of the Spring sun. And I enjoy these sojourns with the moon. My vampiric existence has led me to build a rapport with the glowing beauty of the night, and perhaps, one night, when the crimson curtains have closed on the day once more, I shall be allowed to borrow the moon from her lofty perch and perhaps, if you are lucky, I shall present her as a gift to you. For, you see, there is a reason why the moon disappears on one night out of the month, and this is where she goes.