And Tim Wannenmacher will be next. It makes perfect sense. I wouldn't stick around at UBS, wasting my time, getting involved with some prime brokerage nonsense, with my friends all disappeared. What kind of ... ? It's not any kind of life.
Having said that, there is little in this world that is any kind of life, really. We have to do the best we can with what we have been given. Our brains, our souls. And with what we have made. Our situations, our rotten beds. It can't be much fun for the ones without imagination. I wouldn't swap places with them for anything. And it can't be much fun for the ones with imagination. I should know. But I'm trying not to know. I'm trying not to think, to be honest with you, this early in the morning at the start of another week. What will I prove to myself (or anyone) this week? What will my achievement be? More words, yet more words, even more words, to go with all the others? Oh, wonderful. I'm so happy. I'm so glad I made the right choices in life. Maybe I should have gone for a season in prime brokerage, when I was young and carefree, and had energy and enthusiasm. There are worse things you can do, though I can't think of any at the moment. Just ask David Gray. Ask Ashley Jarvis. And ask Tim Wannenmacher, a couple of months from now. He won't last.
None of us last. We go, running off to the next grave of pleasure, or so we imagine. There's no joy to be had any more. We've squeezed the juice of existence into the earth. It's almost dry. My little desperadoes, put your mouths to the ground and lick the wet dirt, the mud of your lives! I'm trying not to laugh. I can only wish every one of you the best of luck. I know you think it's a worthwhile thing to do. Look, a trickle! Catch it! Are any of you satisfied? You are pathetic, and you're wearing me out. Can't you sit or stand still, just for a minute? Let us wait, for the end, peacefully, not fighting, not even wriggling.
This is one of my moods. It will pass. Try to believe my words while they are here in front of you. There will be other moods, and other words. Maybe I will want to fight, later on. We know there will be other words, and that I will want you to believe them. It can't be easy for you, my ragged (as if) children. You must have moods and words of your own. I wouldn't know, of course. How could I know, faced with your silences, and your blank faces? There's a chill in the air this morning. I'm hoping the day will warm up. I'm hoping I will warm up. And you! Give me your cold hands. We are still alive! Let Gray, Jarvis, and Wannenmacher do what they want to do. We don't even know these people. But we know ourselves, don't we? We are not strangers to ourselves. How goddamn awful would that be?
Having said that, there is little in this world that is any kind of life, really. We have to do the best we can with what we have been given. Our brains, our souls. And with what we have made. Our situations, our rotten beds. It can't be much fun for the ones without imagination. I wouldn't swap places with them for anything. And it can't be much fun for the ones with imagination. I should know. But I'm trying not to know. I'm trying not to think, to be honest with you, this early in the morning at the start of another week. What will I prove to myself (or anyone) this week? What will my achievement be? More words, yet more words, even more words, to go with all the others? Oh, wonderful. I'm so happy. I'm so glad I made the right choices in life. Maybe I should have gone for a season in prime brokerage, when I was young and carefree, and had energy and enthusiasm. There are worse things you can do, though I can't think of any at the moment. Just ask David Gray. Ask Ashley Jarvis. And ask Tim Wannenmacher, a couple of months from now. He won't last.
None of us last. We go, running off to the next grave of pleasure, or so we imagine. There's no joy to be had any more. We've squeezed the juice of existence into the earth. It's almost dry. My little desperadoes, put your mouths to the ground and lick the wet dirt, the mud of your lives! I'm trying not to laugh. I can only wish every one of you the best of luck. I know you think it's a worthwhile thing to do. Look, a trickle! Catch it! Are any of you satisfied? You are pathetic, and you're wearing me out. Can't you sit or stand still, just for a minute? Let us wait, for the end, peacefully, not fighting, not even wriggling.
This is one of my moods. It will pass. Try to believe my words while they are here in front of you. There will be other moods, and other words. Maybe I will want to fight, later on. We know there will be other words, and that I will want you to believe them. It can't be easy for you, my ragged (as if) children. You must have moods and words of your own. I wouldn't know, of course. How could I know, faced with your silences, and your blank faces? There's a chill in the air this morning. I'm hoping the day will warm up. I'm hoping I will warm up. And you! Give me your cold hands. We are still alive! Let Gray, Jarvis, and Wannenmacher do what they want to do. We don't even know these people. But we know ourselves, don't we? We are not strangers to ourselves. How goddamn awful would that be?
