I live in New Orleans, in a neighborhood that has many artists and musicians. There is a constant ebb and flow of youth on my street.
This makes me think dark thoughts indeed.
I start to have covetous rants in my mind. The kind you hear old men make to themselves under their breath in scary movies. Why should they be young, I think, and I be growing old? Why should they have their life ahead of them, and I have mine mostly behind me?
I—I who would know how to use their youth to the fullest degree!—I should have their youth.
I want your youth, I think, you there, bright savage boy, with your studied insouciance, flip-flops, tousled hair, tattoos and sleeveless T-shirt. And I’m going to have it.
In the dark of the night, I’ll come to your apartment and, threading my way amongst beer cans, bottles of Jack Daniels, assorted balls, bong, condoms, female clothing left behind, unpaid bills, roommates, bowls with dried up Ramen noodles and parking tickets, I’ll come to you while you’re sleeping.
Then I’ll sink my teeth into your neck, and I’ll suck your blood. I’ll imbibe your youth, drain it from your body. I’ll feel its strength shoot through my own veins, replenishing me.