And I bet they've missed him. Cyril is returning as a managing director and head of the global asset allocation team. Covered in glory? It's not impossible. I bet he's really excited, replacing Henry McVey. I would be, if I were ... a normal human being.
I love stories like this. But I know I'll never be able to go home, myself. The desert is dead to me now. So much has changed. I've destroyed quite a bit, killed so many characters, rid myself of so many voices. Bare. Flesh. Burnt.
Cyril is lucky. Well, it's not luck. He's a simple man, and he chose a simple life. Fair enough. Not an option for me. I am tormented. Too much spirit, even naked. Restless, agitated. Rolling, all sweaty in the heat. Did I bring the desert with me?
I want to be quieter, colder, private. Shut off. Cut the shit, out. The pathetic news. The vulgar entertainment. I want to do this for myself, me, and the intelligent readers who come here on a regular basis - you? It's complicated. I am complicated.
Cyril won't understand. We can't help Cyril. (Nor the people like him.) But he doesn't even need our help. Let him return to Morgan Stanley. That's all he wants, and needs. Maybe we should envy him. There's nothing there.
I don't envy Cyril. (Yeah, maybe I should.) I don't envy Cyril. My life is hard. The rewards will be greater. I've got to believe that. Let's not envy him. (But maybe we should.) There's nothing there. At least we have souls.
A wretched bag of bones hugs a pillow to get to sleep. What the fuck is the world coming to? Cyril? I have no idea how Cyril makes it through the night. Me? I don't sleep. I just pass out. It's a common thing with masters of reality.
Cyril Moulle-Berteaux. I can hardly believe it. It's the easiest thing. Having a name, a job, a life. Has he thought about any of it? Forget yesterday's politics. This is personal. Cyril is a man. He has never been challenged like this. 'Oh.'
I love stories like this. But I know I'll never be able to go home, myself. The desert is dead to me now. So much has changed. I've destroyed quite a bit, killed so many characters, rid myself of so many voices. Bare. Flesh. Burnt.
Cyril is lucky. Well, it's not luck. He's a simple man, and he chose a simple life. Fair enough. Not an option for me. I am tormented. Too much spirit, even naked. Restless, agitated. Rolling, all sweaty in the heat. Did I bring the desert with me?
I want to be quieter, colder, private. Shut off. Cut the shit, out. The pathetic news. The vulgar entertainment. I want to do this for myself, me, and the intelligent readers who come here on a regular basis - you? It's complicated. I am complicated.
Cyril won't understand. We can't help Cyril. (Nor the people like him.) But he doesn't even need our help. Let him return to Morgan Stanley. That's all he wants, and needs. Maybe we should envy him. There's nothing there.
I don't envy Cyril. (Yeah, maybe I should.) I don't envy Cyril. My life is hard. The rewards will be greater. I've got to believe that. Let's not envy him. (But maybe we should.) There's nothing there. At least we have souls.
A wretched bag of bones hugs a pillow to get to sleep. What the fuck is the world coming to? Cyril? I have no idea how Cyril makes it through the night. Me? I don't sleep. I just pass out. It's a common thing with masters of reality.
Cyril Moulle-Berteaux. I can hardly believe it. It's the easiest thing. Having a name, a job, a life. Has he thought about any of it? Forget yesterday's politics. This is personal. Cyril is a man. He has never been challenged like this. 'Oh.'
