I’ve donated blood many times, so there must be other people with my blood in their veins. It should be possible to ID them, trace them – my blood-brothers and sisters. They have a part of me, are partly me.
For instance, “Mark” and “Helen,” let’s call them, have some of my blood, but of course neither knows this. They meet, are immediately attracted to each other. “Something in our blood,” Mark or Helen might say, joking.
But eventually their lives together, once so promising, end in disorder, confusion.
“Bad blood,” the coroner scrawls in his notes.
[Click ‘Random Post’ above – be astonished]