Sometimes we hunt vampires. They are not repulsive or evil as legends tell and morals preach. Nor do they assume human forms and bite beautiful women's necks to give them a pleasure that humiliates all mortal men. They don't seem strong and they don't kiss with lips or attack with fangs. On the contrary, they are delicated like spider webs and small like fireflies.
To catch them it is necessary to wait in the darkness and move into emptiness with a pallid and furious net. The white of your skin or eyes or teeth, the lunar reverberations of the net, make them dizzy. The smell of your unclothed body guides them, your hunter's fantasy embraces them in ardent silence. It is easy then to seize them between the tips of your fingers in order to devour them or enclose them in transparent flasks. Some people hide them among their downy pubic hairs, others dissolve them in the juice of opium poppies so their dreams' meaning might exceed the poverty of the days thar die.
Others become vampires themselves: creatures of unimaginable beauty, victims of the new hunters who are waiting, their bodies luminous like lamps.
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