... were up to no good. Up to no good with their crazy relatives over the water, James and Miranda Sanders. More insider shenanigans! But let's be honest, everyone is up to no good! It's the way of the world. We are all inside something. This world, this cosmos. Everyone is being charged! There is no escape.
'The McClellans might have thought that they could conceal their illegal scheme by having close relatives make illegal trades offshore. They were wrong,' said Robert Khuzami, Director of the SEC's Division of Enforcement. 'In this day and age, whether it's across oceans or across markets, the SEC and its domestic and foreign law enforcement partners are committed to identifying and prosecuting illegal insider trading.' More here.
Oh, they were wrong, still are. And Mr Khuzami is wrong. We are all wrong. Even the hermit in his cave is wrong, so what chance the regulator, the cop, or the journalist? We are human beings. We are all sinners. We ain't never been right. This is something I know. A little fragment of our reality, and I could reveal more. But who will read this? Who will learn? Who will follow? Won't everyone just smile, and say, 'Wonderful entertainment! Now, I wonder what the others have posted'? It is so very depressing. The loneliness of the supersane. A heaven that burns like hell. Who will understand?
O Master, the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. It is better to hear the rebuke of the wise, than for a man to hear the song of fools. For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of the fool.
Yes, my child. The best of my readers will certainly understand that. Hopefully, they will keep away from those other voices, foolish voices, those other sites, that offer only emptiness, though they make noises like they offer wisdom. There is no end to their writings. All day and all night they witter on. None of it is permanent. None of it burns with the fire of essential speech. Their works are holes in the soil of mankind’s achievements. However, it is not so with me. I am building a palace on their posts. And they know it, and they hate me for it. My words cut through their brains like a knife, leaving them envious and sad, and angry and frustrated, writhing on the cold ground of the internet like snakes, while I fly over them on my way to immortality. An eagle blessed by God.
'The McClellans might have thought that they could conceal their illegal scheme by having close relatives make illegal trades offshore. They were wrong,' said Robert Khuzami, Director of the SEC's Division of Enforcement. 'In this day and age, whether it's across oceans or across markets, the SEC and its domestic and foreign law enforcement partners are committed to identifying and prosecuting illegal insider trading.' More here.
Oh, they were wrong, still are. And Mr Khuzami is wrong. We are all wrong. Even the hermit in his cave is wrong, so what chance the regulator, the cop, or the journalist? We are human beings. We are all sinners. We ain't never been right. This is something I know. A little fragment of our reality, and I could reveal more. But who will read this? Who will learn? Who will follow? Won't everyone just smile, and say, 'Wonderful entertainment! Now, I wonder what the others have posted'? It is so very depressing. The loneliness of the supersane. A heaven that burns like hell. Who will understand?
O Master, the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning; but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. It is better to hear the rebuke of the wise, than for a man to hear the song of fools. For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of the fool.
Yes, my child. The best of my readers will certainly understand that. Hopefully, they will keep away from those other voices, foolish voices, those other sites, that offer only emptiness, though they make noises like they offer wisdom. There is no end to their writings. All day and all night they witter on. None of it is permanent. None of it burns with the fire of essential speech. Their works are holes in the soil of mankind’s achievements. However, it is not so with me. I am building a palace on their posts. And they know it, and they hate me for it. My words cut through their brains like a knife, leaving them envious and sad, and angry and frustrated, writhing on the cold ground of the internet like snakes, while I fly over them on my way to immortality. An eagle blessed by God.
