I got my books signed by Anne Rice!

Wait.

Allow me to savor such tantalizing words, soft, mellow, and so full of life, clamped beneath the hungry jaws of my mind!

Such beautiful words. Oh, the wondrous English language to create such words!

I stood in line, a last minute decision it was, of hastily driving through the night as car headlights revealed darting, misty shades. Two hours I shifted on my feet, my eyes dragging, sweet, threatening sleep enveloping me in a webbed gauze of agelessness.

Slowly we shuffled, clutching the hard books that smelled sweet and choked with rough uneven pages, craning our necks for a glimpse of Her.

Finally I approached, I said hello with a rather nervous laugh. She is indescribably eerie in person, like a ghost herself. Gray hair bobs to top her chin, high cheekbones, rounded eyes, and yet a spirit that transcends physical appearance to flit impatiently about the room. It was of no other earthly sensation or feeling but of a reveler upon opium, whose brain is rotted and empty in his skull.

She gave me a bit of a smile and such was that.

I got my books signed by Anne Rice!

Hooray!