And there's nothing we can do about it. (Well, if I had the energy or the enthusiasm ...) Why Mr Borish?! I, there ... may be a slim chance that Paul Touradji knows what he is doing[?]! He's a veteran of the desert, after all. (And he remembers, obviously.) This Peter Borish used to be head of research at Tudor Investment Corp.[.] Oh, some time ago. I don't know when. I, not ... much of a preparation for Touradji Capital Management, eh? But it's none of my business. I'm not going to get involved. Why should I? Paul Touradji wants to concentrate on trading. Good luck to him! It's nothing to do with me. It really isn't. Even though I remember the desert nights ...
Paul and I were incredibly close, once upon a time. Like brothers, we were, mystic brothers. But times change. Paul doesn't hear the voices any more. (How could he? I got rid of them.) However, it's no great loss to him, I mean, I'm sure. And he's made of strong stuff. All the children are having to live without the voices now, anyway. They don't complain, do you? It's amazing what you can cope with - if you have to. I cope with the loneliness pretty well - with the desert nights gone forever, and the desert days, rolling in the sand, burning it up. And ... and ... and ...
Fuck the desert, reader(s)! Life goes on, yeah? Why am I so sentimental about shit like this? If Touradji doesn't miss it, why should I? Is he the stronger man, or just cold and dead inside? I don't know. I know he's moved on with his life, I know that. Life goes on ... for a while, then it stops, and starts again. I can't explain. I'm losing my grip on the mysteries.
I just wish ... you know? Oh, you understand. I don't have to write about it. There's a pain that never goes away. You can be lost in the desert. You can be lost in the City. You can be lost anywhere - if you have the soul for it. I can't fight the emptiness with this lack of energy and enthusiasm. I want to sleep, on the floor of my room, and dream of desert sands, and City pavement, what does it matter? When you're asleep you're dead to the world but ... no, there's still pain. There's no escape. My wrist hurts, blood in my head, gut all fucked up, and eyes like you won't believe ... I -
They think it's a joke, the life of a shaman. But am I laughing? No. I can't see the funny side. This is real sickness.
Paul and I were incredibly close, once upon a time. Like brothers, we were, mystic brothers. But times change. Paul doesn't hear the voices any more. (How could he? I got rid of them.) However, it's no great loss to him, I mean, I'm sure. And he's made of strong stuff. All the children are having to live without the voices now, anyway. They don't complain, do you? It's amazing what you can cope with - if you have to. I cope with the loneliness pretty well - with the desert nights gone forever, and the desert days, rolling in the sand, burning it up. And ... and ... and ...
Fuck the desert, reader(s)! Life goes on, yeah? Why am I so sentimental about shit like this? If Touradji doesn't miss it, why should I? Is he the stronger man, or just cold and dead inside? I don't know. I know he's moved on with his life, I know that. Life goes on ... for a while, then it stops, and starts again. I can't explain. I'm losing my grip on the mysteries.
I just wish ... you know? Oh, you understand. I don't have to write about it. There's a pain that never goes away. You can be lost in the desert. You can be lost in the City. You can be lost anywhere - if you have the soul for it. I can't fight the emptiness with this lack of energy and enthusiasm. I want to sleep, on the floor of my room, and dream of desert sands, and City pavement, what does it matter? When you're asleep you're dead to the world but ... no, there's still pain. There's no escape. My wrist hurts, blood in my head, gut all fucked up, and eyes like you won't believe ... I -
They think it's a joke, the life of a shaman. But am I laughing? No. I can't see the funny side. This is real sickness.
