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White Rabbit, my Khayman.

"[...] He also liked the blood of their victims, of course. It was not necessary say. Not part of his little joke. Death was not fun for him. Silently stalking its prey, I did not know their victims. All I had to do was tell a mortal, and he was around. It was wrong in his opinion, talk to those sweet-eyed creatures and then swallow his warm blood, break their bones and suck the marrow, squeezing its members to fully drain the pulp. And he was fed and now, with so much violence. I no longer had much need of blood, but he wanted her. And the desire was dominated in all its purity sweeping, very different from thirst. In one night, could make a feast and send three or four deaths.

Pero estaba seguro, absolutamente seguro, de que una vez había sido un humano. De que había andado bajo la luz y el calor del día; sí, una vez lo había hecho, aunque evidentemente, ahora no podía. Se imaginaba sentado en una mesa de madera, cortando por la mitad un melocotón maduro con su pequeño cuchillo de cobre. Era bello el fruto que tenía ante sí. Conocía su sabor. Conocía el sabor del pan y de la cerveza. Veía el sol brillando en la monotonía amarilla de la arena, que, afuera, se extendía kilómetros y kilómetros. Túmbate y descansa en el calor del día , le había dicho alguien una vez. ¿Era el último día he had been alive ?[...]"

The Queen of the Damned, Anne Rice