The true vampire need not drink blood. He (or she), being an advanced lifeform, could not be so literal, or so vulgar. Rather, predator upon God's ultimate creation, he must needs be the ultimate predator. What, then, have men that is shared with no other? Reason, you say? A soul, a self, sentience? More or less. And that is the vampire's sustenance. Oh, he is not displeased with the image of rending fangs and bloodied chin: tribute and camoflage at once. Rather, he is grateful, in his unseemly dependence, that he is not sought in his more regular professions: social service, teaching, psychiatry, or the arts. He stays close to his garden, absorbing the stuff of life without contamination. For recreation, he disgorges the excess on paper, writing poetry.