He walked over to the bookcase choosing an old book covered in reddish brown leather with beautiful etchings on it. He held it as though it were precious to him, he opened the pages that were starting to crumble and looked at the small hand-painted picture within. He glanced down at the family in the picture. His parents, brother, and there by his brother's side was himself. The way was he changed, before that fatal night. He didn't want to thing of the time that had passed since he had last seen the sun. Felt its warmth on his skin. He closed the book and replaced it, no one thought him strange, not anymore. Because he was a writer, and all knew that writers were strange. He had used that misconception to hide his true nature. For he didn't keep regular hours, and he kept to himself a lot. When he did have to go amoung a lot of strangers, he used his glimmer to hide his elven and vampire features. In the bookcases in front of him, were thousands of books most of them were those he had written. This was only one occupation he had held, how many had he in the centuries he had lived among the humans? How many more would hadd to it in the centuries to come? He grew weary of the existence he now lived. .

What is with all these vampire romances, anyway? We get stacks of them donated to the library!