Not in blood business. Not in imagination, not in prophecies, not in true. Thank God, with blood at us problems never was. Even
in those days, when yet have not thought up a donor service, perhloretan, duplekatsiju and other entertaining pieces of revival
or posthumous scanning. To me has come to mind (again an unexpected winding of a tail of a personal python which all is
straightened and straightened, getting rid of nonlinearity of subjective time, but still convulsively twitching, breaking linearity of
time real because of what chains of thoughts expand till infinite length, neglecting points, at random putting commas and
forgetting about with what my reflexions began) that our aspiration to improve medicine, surgery, traumatology, finally plays
psychiatry against us - we cease to be afraid of death, we is easier look at war and on severe wound possibility, to us are not
terrible drugs, we easier and skilfully manipulate the friend the friend, press weak points of mentality, and is much stronger
korezhim than it. To us to spit on amputation - artificial finitenesses even it is better, we do not see a murder sin in abortions, and
it seems to us that children who have been grown up in test tubes, differ nothing from children usual. We were covered with the
big, soft down pillow from blows of the Nature and we continue to attack blindly it, having forgotten that once it can replace a
bludgeon, whose blows stick in down lots, on the long and sharply ground sword. Us will spread on it, and no medicine, any
science will rescue us. As will not rescue me the imagination which has already found pair-three of comprehensible explanations
created in my apartment which are based on two fundamental postulates one of which says that I had a time eclipse, a memory
blackout, an amnesia, insanity is possible, and the second is blood not the person, is more exact not from the live person. It is
the bull blood from a slaughter-house (and where it is located?), it is donor or artificial blood (and where it to search?) . Well, has
knocked at me in a head (or on a head), well, has eaten I something (a tinned rotten stuffed cabbage), well, has drunk
denatured alcohol, well, nashirjalsja any muck, and has climbed up to me in a sick head to open in apartment the centre of blood
transfusion or factory on hematogen manufacture, and I have gone, serdeshnyj, on the full autopilot and with the refused brakes
on the nearest slaughterhouse or to the nearest gematologichesky the centre, having grasped with myself some empty canisters,
have come there (or has arrived), have politely-politely asked some gallons of an initial material, fairly looking at doctors or
skotobojshchikov kind eyes which so break off it hearts the cleanliness and naivety that they do not find any occasions to
refuse to me my request. So it is simple.