blood [Theme] Page 1

“Don’t love me,” the vampire whispered. - I'm the worst person you've ever met. You will have to fight for me with my own bloodlust. This love will not be happy... One day you will get tired of it. You will curse my name.

You think your life means something to me just because she fell in love with you? I am the world's first vampire. I've seen dozens of people like you, and you all want something that will never be yours. All vampires live only because it was My will. Rory is the last of my kind. It's my blood. You are not her equal. Never have been and never will be. I will make sure she knows how you betrayed her. This will help her make a decision and take my side. When that happens, I'll make her mine. The conversion will make her stronger than anyone in the world. Perhaps she will be stronger than me. No one can harm her.

But no one had yet been able to get to the bottom of what was most captivating in it: it was the mysterious ability of the soul to perceive in life only what once attracted and tormented in childhood, at that time when the soul’s sense of smell is unmistakable; look for the funny and touching; to constantly feel unbearable, tender pity for a creature living helplessly and miserably, to feel, a thousand miles away, how in some Sicily a thin-legged donkey with a shaggy belly is being roughly beaten. When she actually met the offended creature, there was a feeling of a legendary eclipse, when an inexplicable night sets in, and ashes fly, and blood appears on the walls - and it seemed that if now - right now - you don’t help, you won’t be able to stop someone else’s torment , the existence of which in such a world conducive to happiness is impossible to explain, she herself will suffocate, die, her heart will not stand it. And therefore she lived in constant secret excitement, constantly anticipating a new hobby or a new pity, and they said about her that she adores dogs and is always ready to lend money - and listening to petty rumors, she felt like in childhood, during that game when you leave the room, and others invent various opinions about you. And among the players, among those to whom she came out after being in the next room (where you sit, waiting to be called, and honestly hum something, so as not to overhear, or open a random book, and, like a released spring, it jumps out a piece of a novel, the end of an incomprehensible conversation), among these people, whose opinion it was necessary to guess, there was now a man, rather silent, heavy on his feet, completely unknown what he thought about her.

Familiar to the smallest detail...

I used to think that it was me who devoured book after book. I read one and take another according to my choice and desire. And then I realized that it is books that consume us. Like a fish on a hook, they hook the reader from the first page and grind all his ideas about life, flicking his nose with one page, cutting his fingers into blood with another. And then, taking pity on us, they let us go. They are released differently, with Stockholm syndrome of gratitude for the adventure that they managed to survive. And determining our path in finding the next book to read.

Careless and blind to the wasted light of Wisdom!

Theater is a constant drip. Something like that comes into your blood all the time. Sometimes you can “turn it off,” but only for a short time. Otherwise - blood stagnation. Theater is like a drug, of course. I don’t know a person who would just retire: he would sit in the country, at home. Everyone comes to the theater to die.

Truman accepted Oppenheimer only in October 1945. He asked the scientist when, in his opinion, the Russians will be able to develop their own atomic bomb? Oppenheimer hesitated to answer. Then Truman himself answered his own question: "Never." Struck by the incompetence of the president in such an important matter and realizing what it threatens, Oppenheimer squeezed out of himself: "Mr. President, I feel that there is blood on my hands" ... Truman got angry. I told him there was blood on my hands and not to worry about it. After the meeting, Truman told Dean Acheson, "I don't want to see that son of a bitch in my office anymore." Oppenheimer was later attacked by conservatives who considered him an agent of the Soviet Union. He was repeatedly summoned to the FBI for questioning. And in 1954, they were deprived of access to secret work. His crime in the eyes of the American authorities was that he opposed the creation of a new hydrogen bomb, which he considered a weapon of genocide.

For him, love is not a movie for a long time.

Look where we sit, despite all our multi-stage plans - in a prison on the edge of the earth. In fact, the world is driven by those who fell into the maelstrom of chance. They circle there, scream and shed blood. You and I are absolutely powerless against the strength of their spirit.

I couldn't sleep... Things were going badly and threatened to get worse. Sooner or later, the truth will emerge, and then not only Vinci and the Chinese, but also Falcone will take up arms against us. This is not how I envisioned it when we started. I dreamed of money, cars, women, respect, freedom. I even got all this, more or less, but at the same time came prison, constant fear and the blood of my comrades. I kept afloat as long as I could, but the chances were getting smaller. Now it was only a matter of time...

Everyone has their own truth, their own furrow. For a piece of bread, for a plot of land, for the right to life, people have always fought and will continue to fight as long as warm blood oozes through their veins.

I have the power of the goddess, her blood... I am the only living heir of Persephone. No vampire, witch, or mortal will have power over me.

History needs legends, desperate deeds and noble examples, fiery speeches, brave heroes and great victories, the victors forget betrayal and cowardice, hypocrisy and blood, the truth remains the truth, and lies become history.