Greg Sommer has been at Citigroup for a thousand years, or so it seems. But Deutsche Bank wants him with his blood and his fire in its mergers and acquisitions group as a managing director, as a warrior, as a man who knows the value of all that is hidden from the sleepers.
Deutsche Bank has Greg Sommer's soul. His body will arrive wrapped in golden flames, delivered by ghosts, blessed by gods, dreamed of by shamans. We have been waiting for this. I knew the day would come. It is coming. It will come. The day is not here, yet. It is over there, beyond the astral horizon, in the future of the world, in a time that exists only in my imagination, oh, and yours, of course. We are patient. Did we not wait a million years for the first money gods to take their positions? Time is nothing to us. We are immortal, out of flesh or in flesh, away from bones or embracing bones. We take what we are given. We never complain. We are more than human. In fact, everyone is. Oh, if only everyone knew! Could everyone be like us? Yes!
They must leave small things behind. Greg has. If we cut Greg Sommer, will he not bleed? If we set fire to him, will he not burn? But he will not die. That is what the sleepers fail to understand. A mystic bleeding is the most beautiful sight in the cosmos. A mystic burning can change reality. We know this. They do not. We cherish such events. They are repulsed by them. That is why they are not like us. We love the blood. We love the fire.
We are awake. The agony of our lives is a great joy. We are on friendly terms with Death. Nothing frightens us. We are covered in blood. And we are burning. Not that they would know. They cannot see. They have no dreams, no visions. The sleepers are cold, wandering in endless night. We should pity them. Their poverty is a terrible shame. And some of them are very wealthy. Oh, it is cold money. That is all they have. They suffer without awareness. They struggle without meaning. They are the dead who insist on breathing!
Deutsche Bank has Greg Sommer's soul. His body will arrive wrapped in golden flames, delivered by ghosts, blessed by gods, dreamed of by shamans. We have been waiting for this. I knew the day would come. It is coming. It will come. The day is not here, yet. It is over there, beyond the astral horizon, in the future of the world, in a time that exists only in my imagination, oh, and yours, of course. We are patient. Did we not wait a million years for the first money gods to take their positions? Time is nothing to us. We are immortal, out of flesh or in flesh, away from bones or embracing bones. We take what we are given. We never complain. We are more than human. In fact, everyone is. Oh, if only everyone knew! Could everyone be like us? Yes!
They must leave small things behind. Greg has. If we cut Greg Sommer, will he not bleed? If we set fire to him, will he not burn? But he will not die. That is what the sleepers fail to understand. A mystic bleeding is the most beautiful sight in the cosmos. A mystic burning can change reality. We know this. They do not. We cherish such events. They are repulsed by them. That is why they are not like us. We love the blood. We love the fire.
We are awake. The agony of our lives is a great joy. We are on friendly terms with Death. Nothing frightens us. We are covered in blood. And we are burning. Not that they would know. They cannot see. They have no dreams, no visions. The sleepers are cold, wandering in endless night. We should pity them. Their poverty is a terrible shame. And some of them are very wealthy. Oh, it is cold money. That is all they have. They suffer without awareness. They struggle without meaning. They are the dead who insist on breathing!
