And I couldn't be happier. Yesterday, I was all suicidal like a broken sha / sha / shaman. Today, the sun is shining in my soul (well, that's what it feels like) and I discover that Roger Guy and Guillaume Rambourg are together again and planning to start their own hedge fund. Will the fund be based in London or Geneva? If the lads have any sense they will choose Geneva. Do they really want the FSA wrecking their new venture? Journalists (most journalists, there was Nick Goodway) are too scared to write about it, but it is the TRUTH that the duo's old firm, Gartmore, suffered death by regulation.
Anyway, I can't wait for the fund's launch. It's going to be a gas. It will be a champagne riot. It might even be a shamanic carnival with blood and fire. The investors will come hobbling back to the lads, heavy suitcases packed, with amazingly hard cash, the kind of notes, stinking, raw, and violent, you can sensuously run your fingers through, while a sexy thing rubs up against you, the caviar smeared on her enormous breasts. Roger and Guillaume won't know what to do with all the money. I suppose they could give me my share. I mean, I deserve a share, after all the mystic love I've laid on them. I would only be too extremely willing to take a million pounds off their hands. Maybe even more. That's how sensitive I am to the needs of others. Being old school, I would stuff most of it into my mouth and set fire to it. I'm fucking crazy. I don't care. It's the lifestyle I was born for. I can't wait for the launch.
I can't wait for the launch. They better invite me. I want to be there. I'll curse them, yes, I will send them to HELL if they deny me the opportunity to roll naked on their office floor with the money stuck to me, in my mouth, in my arse, burning, my hair on fire, like a god, now that I've killed all the others or sent them away. This better be understood: like a disturbed cow chased by bats in the night, I'll squeeze something from the experience. Something to remember when I am old and grey and as near to death as we always are. Near to it. Taste it, children! There is nothing to be afraid of. Death is your friend. Money is a lover. Let it come alive! Open your wallet. Open your purse - if you're that sort. Jump in with your mind. Put your soul into it. You can die in your wallet. You can drown with that cash. Let it take you. Do not resist. We are going somewhere else. Away from all the pain. Forget the launch. We will launch ourselves right now. This isn't a hedge fund. We can't hang around waiting for Roger and Guillaume to get their act together. Hang on ...
Oh, it's fading. I'm losing my grip. Damn! It's gone. We will have to wait for the fund. No choice. I'm not going to explain. I am very disappointed. It was there, in the vision. But it has gone. We were wishing for too much. I think we were being too optimistic. Still, there's the fund to come. I wonder what they will call it. The Roger Guy Experience? With Guillaume as junior partner? No, that wouldn't be fair. Guy Rambourg! Yes, I like that. Not very imaginative, but it sounds all right. They should name the fund after themselves. Let the whole world know that they are not shy, retiring types.
Time for reflection. Even without the desert, there is passion, blood and fire. Not much changes ever. I get worked up. I might go to the park after lunch. Or should I continue with my writing, and try to solve the mystery? This spiritual exhaustion, I ... it's hard to explain. This is one more thing it's no use even trying to explain. I have no energy left.
Anyway, I can't wait for the fund's launch. It's going to be a gas. It will be a champagne riot. It might even be a shamanic carnival with blood and fire. The investors will come hobbling back to the lads, heavy suitcases packed, with amazingly hard cash, the kind of notes, stinking, raw, and violent, you can sensuously run your fingers through, while a sexy thing rubs up against you, the caviar smeared on her enormous breasts. Roger and Guillaume won't know what to do with all the money. I suppose they could give me my share. I mean, I deserve a share, after all the mystic love I've laid on them. I would only be too extremely willing to take a million pounds off their hands. Maybe even more. That's how sensitive I am to the needs of others. Being old school, I would stuff most of it into my mouth and set fire to it. I'm fucking crazy. I don't care. It's the lifestyle I was born for. I can't wait for the launch.
I can't wait for the launch. They better invite me. I want to be there. I'll curse them, yes, I will send them to HELL if they deny me the opportunity to roll naked on their office floor with the money stuck to me, in my mouth, in my arse, burning, my hair on fire, like a god, now that I've killed all the others or sent them away. This better be understood: like a disturbed cow chased by bats in the night, I'll squeeze something from the experience. Something to remember when I am old and grey and as near to death as we always are. Near to it. Taste it, children! There is nothing to be afraid of. Death is your friend. Money is a lover. Let it come alive! Open your wallet. Open your purse - if you're that sort. Jump in with your mind. Put your soul into it. You can die in your wallet. You can drown with that cash. Let it take you. Do not resist. We are going somewhere else. Away from all the pain. Forget the launch. We will launch ourselves right now. This isn't a hedge fund. We can't hang around waiting for Roger and Guillaume to get their act together. Hang on ...
Oh, it's fading. I'm losing my grip. Damn! It's gone. We will have to wait for the fund. No choice. I'm not going to explain. I am very disappointed. It was there, in the vision. But it has gone. We were wishing for too much. I think we were being too optimistic. Still, there's the fund to come. I wonder what they will call it. The Roger Guy Experience? With Guillaume as junior partner? No, that wouldn't be fair. Guy Rambourg! Yes, I like that. Not very imaginative, but it sounds all right. They should name the fund after themselves. Let the whole world know that they are not shy, retiring types.
_________________________
Time for reflection. Even without the desert, there is passion, blood and fire. Not much changes ever. I get worked up. I might go to the park after lunch. Or should I continue with my writing, and try to solve the mystery? This spiritual exhaustion, I ... it's hard to explain. This is one more thing it's no use even trying to explain. I have no energy left.
