And I don't blame him. Mark Barnes has been working far too hard in that commie bank. Owned by the state? Ridiculous! But he is slipping off the cold world for a year. Slipping into a different state of mind, a sandy experience with trickles of blood. Obviously, I am speaking of the desert. Clearly, I am full of admiration for Mr Barnes. As global head of forex trading at RBS he has had a wild time with a head of fire, but it is not as satisfying [that life] as the other life he is slipping towards. We can watch him moving slowly through many realities. We can admire him as he goes. Look! A flame in his eye, from the brain. It could leave him and come to one of us, eye to eye, and we would laugh, knowing that Mr Barnes was laughing with us. Not at us. With us - or one of us. As for the desert, he must tackle it alone. Yes, alone. We will be sad to see him go. We may even pine for him. But we will not wander through his consciousness while he is away. No, we will not be there with him, wandering through his patch, as it were, or as it will be. This is a private thing for Mr Barnes. I think we know he will return stronger than ever, don't we? And the rumour is: he will be returning to a new role at RBS. A new role, eh? We can all guess what that will be. He will become the top shaman at RBS! Oh, the bank hasn't said so, but we're not stupid, are we? RBS certainly needs a top shaman, someone to lead the handful of rather inexperienced shamans and mystics at the bank.
Let's send him off, not just with a head of fire, but with a stomach, a heart, a soul of fire! O my children, Mark Barnes needs to know that we love him, that we sincerely love him. We need to build him up! Mr Barnes will need an ego the size of a bus or a battleship if he is to survive the lonely nights beneath the astral moon (Why a bus? Why a battleship?) in our strange land. It's not the same as being at work, or being at home. There's no devil at work, or at home. Well, the devil can be present in those places, but not with the same power that he possesses in the desolate place. Yes, it's desolate. We have to be honest. It is the desert, for crying out loud enough that God might hear. O my children, none of us want to see Satan rise up from the lower levels with the sole intention of dragging Mr Barnes down. There is slipping away, and then there is going down. There is the burning of money which never ceases, and then there is the burning of money that leads to ashes. I don't want to see Mr Barnes writhing on a dark surface with a mouthful of hot ashes. I don't want to see his face covered by a cloud of demonic smoke. I don't want my dreams disturbed by the screamings of this trader. I have been to hell. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, not even to those wretched souls amongst us who consider themselves satanists. Days of chaos? The furry giants? Could Mr Barnes cope? It doesn't bear thinking about!
What follows is just for me. Please stop reading, dear reader, or else you will be invading my privacy. You wouldn't dream of disturbing Mr Barnes during his astral year, would you? You're more than willing to respect his privacy. Well, what about mine? Not everything I write is for you. This is for me: [I have failed. I have not gone beyond Mr Barnes, the subject of this post. What do I have to do? How much intensity do I need? How much vision?] Excuse me, are you still reading this? I should have known! Well, all right, it's no secret that I want to transcend my subject matter. It's no secret that I'm dissatisfied with 90 to 95 per cent of everything I have written. I am not ashamed. At least I'm making the effort. One day my selected posts will be covered in glory. One day! I am living for that day. I will never quit. Never! I know of no other writer in history who has tried to do what I am trying to do. Does that mean I am insane, or just more ambitious than anyone else? Time will tell.
Let's send him off, not just with a head of fire, but with a stomach, a heart, a soul of fire! O my children, Mark Barnes needs to know that we love him, that we sincerely love him. We need to build him up! Mr Barnes will need an ego the size of a bus or a battleship if he is to survive the lonely nights beneath the astral moon (Why a bus? Why a battleship?) in our strange land. It's not the same as being at work, or being at home. There's no devil at work, or at home. Well, the devil can be present in those places, but not with the same power that he possesses in the desolate place. Yes, it's desolate. We have to be honest. It is the desert, for crying out loud enough that God might hear. O my children, none of us want to see Satan rise up from the lower levels with the sole intention of dragging Mr Barnes down. There is slipping away, and then there is going down. There is the burning of money which never ceases, and then there is the burning of money that leads to ashes. I don't want to see Mr Barnes writhing on a dark surface with a mouthful of hot ashes. I don't want to see his face covered by a cloud of demonic smoke. I don't want my dreams disturbed by the screamings of this trader. I have been to hell. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, not even to those wretched souls amongst us who consider themselves satanists. Days of chaos? The furry giants? Could Mr Barnes cope? It doesn't bear thinking about!
What follows is just for me. Please stop reading, dear reader, or else you will be invading my privacy. You wouldn't dream of disturbing Mr Barnes during his astral year, would you? You're more than willing to respect his privacy. Well, what about mine? Not everything I write is for you. This is for me: [I have failed. I have not gone beyond Mr Barnes, the subject of this post. What do I have to do? How much intensity do I need? How much vision?] Excuse me, are you still reading this? I should have known! Well, all right, it's no secret that I want to transcend my subject matter. It's no secret that I'm dissatisfied with 90 to 95 per cent of everything I have written. I am not ashamed. At least I'm making the effort. One day my selected posts will be covered in glory. One day! I am living for that day. I will never quit. Never! I know of no other writer in history who has tried to do what I am trying to do. Does that mean I am insane, or just more ambitious than anyone else? Time will tell.
