I've faced many inquiries into my identity lately, and I appreciate the concerns you bring up. I move about your conversations like an unwelcome wraith. You rarely find a visible trace of my existence, and for a transient moment, you feel something abnormal in me. Your vitals flutter, your capillaries flush. You demand my identity, your shaken at first blush.

You only know something's different here. You rationalize, spinning stories of my childhood, of bizarre tribulations at an infantile stage. You see an unplanned baby, miraculously saved. It changed me, you must think, only there was no infantile it. There was no trauma. I didn't exchange my now for a rancid past.

You see the embers in me, the scintillation of my words, and you see nothing temperately humanoid within my pen. A compromise must exist! A great neural exchange, a debilitating trade pact. What dear importance did I abandon to hold and covet that which I have now?

That is immaterial, considering what I've gained. I'd prefer explaining my hagborn gifts. My master found me mutable, amorphous, adept at adapting to the times. I found things synchronous with all eras, traits indicating temporal connectivity.

I don't view myself as oncogenous to mortals. Within my kind, that's a power. Light is still endogenous within my heart, another gift astonishing to my kind. I'm immersed in you, I dine beside you, converse, opine, and occasionally swap tactile moments in the midst of you mingling among an assemblage. Again, all these are expertise mystifying to my kin.

You look familiar. You had your heart in your mouth. You seemed to stand rigid, and silently begged that I shirk away. Your blood impelled a chemical furnace to trip open the fantastic light where the groves of wraith and vengeance laid dormant within your potent ional.

Confused? I mean I triggered your final malice, the acid defiance. You have liquid hackles that coarsely capacitate a transient volatility. You exude an engrossing defiant ardor for me to compose my poetic ruminations.

Don't get it? Inspiration seeped from your fear. I have a gift in triggering that. I use this to paint a ricercare from that catalyst. Call my contorting of sonic structures vampire gastronomy.

It isn't true that distance lends enchantment, not with me. I linger close for my breed, sometimes feasting when not parched. I don't drink every night, sometimes I lend you that distance. Sometimes I engage you in games. You know this. You've strolled under moonshine, and heard the window latch in your dreams. You felt me during your sweat private imaginings. I've perched overhead, burrowed beneath your steps, breathed in while your ear popped. Yes, I breath your every human scent. I've cycled the minute particles of those falsely-labeled tastes concocted by the mendacious molecules New Jersey alchemists transmute into natural flavors. It is the clone of the body mist lightly squirted on your person, or rolled under your arms. I chuckle at your willingness to hand over fatter sums for chemically equivalent items. Labels matter so much to you, but they've done some semantic tumbling since I transfigured into this fiend. Not many ages have past since when I turned.

When I turned. I don't mind your questions, but must they all follow the same order? What am I? Who am I? How old am I? What are my gifts? Then they expect me to surrender my silver bullet. Permit one question from me, what makes you cry quickest? There is sun and there is fire; only what immolates me stops the recombinant process. My cells are perpetually formulating adaptive strategies, and will function as long as the fuel doesn't burn out. I'm an evolving system, and if you pluck out an ample portion of my chest, you'll behold a faint distinction without a difference.

Your grilling session is high hoi polloi tedium, while my eyes are set with Emerson's. Like him, I too hitch my wagon to a star. You can build beneath it, wallow in a slough of diurnal monotony. You can stay yoked to routine and wages, shroud the black canvas with sodium vapor, and join in the trance of patterned ion gun ballistics-television!- but I'm no longer entertained under my own stars. Please ignore the hue and cry of your countrymen. I thirst for someone else right now, a novice writer of cunning skill, and once my aching mouth finds satiation in saturation, you'll prioritize your thoughts incorrectly, as if my words were just myth from eons, and I'll taste you deeper, perhaps imparting fear in time for that hot chemical furnace to quench my inflamed yearning.

Oh! I am agog in ravenousness reverie!