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I do confess however, every now and then I can not resist the urge, and I will spend days till I find one, fresh and young. That feeling hasn't changed at all my brother. The look of terror. Unlike an adult who realizes what I am and what is happening and fights for its life while hundreds of movies and book cliches races though their mind. A child, the dumb animal that it is, just knows its going to die and doesn't rationalize the experience, it struggles and screams, trapping its primitive animal ancestry. Do you remember what that is like? The taste of the blood, so rich in vitamins that was supposed to support it through its growing years. Blood full of potential that will never be fulfilled. Blood untainted with solid food ever passing through its system. So much life us receiving all its nutrients in liquid form, from another host body. Have you ever experienced the amazing feeling that you can hold your meal in one hand by it's hair, close to you mouth, not having to support a whole huge body weight? Or if its especially young being able to drain a body with one mouth full? The weight in your hands getting lighter until the sucked dry carcass is a shell of tiny bones overlaid with covering of compressed fat and muscle, all moisture totally drained. Covered by a layer of skin that seemed so small before, but now ridiculously lose and large for what remains.

I am sorry brother, please forgive my little indulgence it's a subject for me to get distracted easily on. It is very dangerous to feed on the calf of the species. It is easy to draw attention to yourself and detection is assured if you are taken into the local constable under the misunderstanding that you are a pedophile. If it is a guaranteed safe opportunity take it, and enjoy, but otherwise go for the late teen of the species. The blood is still strong, and is much easier to attain.

You of course may choose to feed where ever you wish, but I myself recommend that you hunt out the youths that tend to dress in black and try to immolate us almost to the point of mockery. I think they choose to call themselves Goths.

I wear the centuries heavy on my frame like an old shirt of mail. I have seen many changes I no longer even attempt to care or figure out the reasons behind the actions of a race I no longer even belong to. So if this section of this century's youth choose to dress in the laces and satin of days long past, dye their hair raven black and paint their faces stark white it makes no real difference to me. I might sidetrack a little if you will indulge me on an artistic angel, which the eons that I have dwelled in this wretched world, I have begun to appreciate. The composition of the smoothness of the young skin covered white in makeup encircled by a frame of shinny black hair, with ribbons or scarlet blood as it seeps from the wounds makes for a fascinating study in contrast. I have tried to capture it on canvas many times, but nothing can depict blood, except genuine blood, and that dries to leave an unexpectable dirty brown stain. Artistic indulgences aside, its not the way the organism is presented that matters. The feed is the same. All the carcasses will eventually deteriorate and rot away to nothing. (I will go into disposal of meat in subsequent letters, like everything a few things have changed)

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