[It might be amusing to see how Dorian treats this new technology, as if he has never seen it before--which he hasn't. He picks up the headphones, tests the flexibility of the band between them briefly, and places them over his ears in one fluid motion. His fingertips linger over the texture of the cassette player, feeling the edges of the buttons, before he goes through the motions Lestat recommended.

Immediately, the drums begin, and it's a matter of seconds before they could be mistaken for his own heartbeat. It's not entirely comfortable, and he visibly tenses up, but he keeps listening. His gaze wanders as if instinctively watching out for threats in an unfamiliar environment.

At the end of the song, he tears the headphones off, panting as if he'd been holding his breath. His hand reaches for his chest, and the motion actually makes it sink in how intense an experience this was. He glances up to meet Lestat's eyes for a moment before snatching up the headphones again and putting them back on.

The final song of the album is less intense, but that allows him to process both songs without feeling totally overwhelmed. Afterward, he takes off the headphones again and sets them down carefully.]

Do you know what it makes me think of? Primitive, tribal music, meant to induce a trance. There is no space for oneself in such music--or perhaps, there is space only for oneself, but nothing else.

[He still feels slightly out of breath, his eyes wide, lips parted, completely taken off-guard.]