... and then live in a fucking cave, apparently. Yes, he'll be taking a wrecking ball to the $43.5 million shithole of a mansion he's living in at the moment. Oh dear. Just as all the shamans and mystics are leaving the desert, Mr Tepper, boss of Appaloosa Management, decides it's time to move out there and find himself or something. But there's nothing to find no more. Not in the desert. That season has passed. We're in the cities now. Doesn't he read this blog?
Let me explain it in plain, simple English for the hard of thinking. The desert is over. It's finished. It has served its purpose. A year ago, I helped you, Mr Tepper, to reach the astral desert. That's when you should have made your move, to the physical desert. You had your chance. You blew it. So stay in the Hamptons. Live in your mansion. Or build a new one, if you must. But forget about the desert. And don't even think of approaching Big Herb. I cut his throat in the astral night. Oh, that hero of the revolution, we'll always remember him. For the love of God, haven't you heard the news? Don't you read this blog, Mr Tepper?
Let me explain it in wild, mystic English for the easy of loving. The cities are ours. They belong to us, right inside. They are a part of us, like our blood, our fire. In our heads, we have financial centres: City of London, Wall Street, Hong Kong. It's not like being there, all cold, wondering what lameness we can lay on our dead admirers, hoping they will care we're mildly entertaining, knowing it's all rubbish, fearing a man of passion. I am that man of passion. With me, money-lovers, it's like being here, truly alive, so incredibly hot, working for a bright future, turning dull news into grand literature (since 2007), having real faith, believing in a higher life. Satisfied? No? Well, let me fuck you up in nights of hell and days of heaven. I am waiting for you to make a decision. I don't know if you've noticed at all, but I'm not taking any prisoners. Life's too short. Are you coming with me, forever, or are you going with them? I don't need dilettantes cramping my style. I want hysterical, professional seekers (lunatic, dangerous, violent), men and women, my brothers and sisters, committed, out cruising for visions, just exploding, ecstatic children. Does that sound like you?
Let me explain it in plain, simple English for the hard of thinking. The desert is over. It's finished. It has served its purpose. A year ago, I helped you, Mr Tepper, to reach the astral desert. That's when you should have made your move, to the physical desert. You had your chance. You blew it. So stay in the Hamptons. Live in your mansion. Or build a new one, if you must. But forget about the desert. And don't even think of approaching Big Herb. I cut his throat in the astral night. Oh, that hero of the revolution, we'll always remember him. For the love of God, haven't you heard the news? Don't you read this blog, Mr Tepper?
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Let me explain it in wild, mystic English for the easy of loving. The cities are ours. They belong to us, right inside. They are a part of us, like our blood, our fire. In our heads, we have financial centres: City of London, Wall Street, Hong Kong. It's not like being there, all cold, wondering what lameness we can lay on our dead admirers, hoping they will care we're mildly entertaining, knowing it's all rubbish, fearing a man of passion. I am that man of passion. With me, money-lovers, it's like being here, truly alive, so incredibly hot, working for a bright future, turning dull news into grand literature (since 2007), having real faith, believing in a higher life. Satisfied? No? Well, let me fuck you up in nights of hell and days of heaven. I am waiting for you to make a decision. I don't know if you've noticed at all, but I'm not taking any prisoners. Life's too short. Are you coming with me, forever, or are you going with them? I don't need dilettantes cramping my style. I want hysterical, professional seekers (lunatic, dangerous, violent), men and women, my brothers and sisters, committed, out cruising for visions, just exploding, ecstatic children. Does that sound like you?
