As the helpless vampire watched the transformation, it started screaming. It was still screaming when his rows of razor sharp teeth sank into its throat.

Even feigning surprise, pretending it was unexpected and saying a ritual thanks, is surely wiser than just expecting everything so carelessly.

The joy from eating does not come from the exclusivity of the food, but instead from the sensitivity that we eat it with.

We worked side by side building our sandwiches. Mine, just a few modest layers of meat and cheese, with a bit of lettuce for some added crunchiness; his, a Dagwood, piled high with turkey, ham, salami, lettuce, tomatoes, two kinds of cheese, and__ere those jalapenos__ith a teetering slice of bread carefully placed on top__here__ no way that__ going to fit into his mouth__e admired it for a moment then using his giant paw, smashed it into submission.

Over the years, we had been as cautious as blindfolded men feeling their way around a mysterious beast, trying to extrapolate what was between us without communicating the knowledge that would have illuminated everything. Until that morning, when we took the blindfolds off, and discovered we were face to face with each other.

Do we take less pride in the possession of our home because its walls were built by some unknown carpenter, its tapestries woven by some unknown weaver on a far Oriental shore, in some antique time? No. We show our home to our friends with the pride as if it were our home, which it is. Why then should we take less pride when reading a book written by some long-dead author? Is it not our book just as much, or even more so, than theirs? So the landowner says, __ook at my beautiful home! Isn__ it fine?_ And not, __ook at the home so-and-so has built._ Thus we shouldn__ cry, __ook what so-and-so has written. What a genius so-and-so is!_ But rather, __ook at what I have read! Am I not a genius? Have I not invented these pages? The walls of this universe, did I not build? The souls of these characters, did I not weave?