I don't know. I really don't. And does it even matter, dear reader(s)? Well, spare a thought for the man himself. Yes, Mr Pittaccio! It must mean something to him, who he is. / We all want to know who we are, especially at night. Oh, I'm writing this in the early morning, but consider the night. Imagine our Mark in the awful night, cold and shivering, staring up at the stars, wondering, wondering ... Is it all worth it? Why did I take the job at Charles Stanley? Sure, it's a big deal being the head of intermediary distribution. But I'm not the first head, and I won't be the last. Others have had the job. Sadly, all forgotten now. Others will have the job. They, too, shall be forgotten. Oh, it's so easy to get depressed in this evil universe ...
Well, well ... evil? 'Ha!' / Christ! I bet he's a barrel of laughs at parties, eh? / I'm looking at Mark's LinkedIn profile. He has more than five hundred connections, and three people have recommended him. 'That's a relief, boss.' Why, Voice? 'It means people know him, and like him. It must be a great comfort to him.' Well, maybe. But they can't be with him in the night, can they? As he stares at the stars, wondering, wondering ... What future is there for me? Christopher Aldous says my experience and advisory perspective represents an extremely valuable addition to - uh, whatever! Who cares?! I am so alone! We are all alone! However, we know that there are "higher" ones. Can they help us? What did Rilke say?! Forget Aldous! Oh, what did Rilke say?! "Angels, it seems, don't always know if they're moving among the living or the dead. The drift of eternity drags all the ages of man through both of those spheres, and its sound rises over them both." And, and ... "Does the outer space into which we all dissolve taste of us all? Do the angels absorb only what's theirs, what streamed away from them, or do they sometimes get - as if by mistake - a little of our being too?" I feel so wretched!
Fucking hell! That's it, Voice, I've decided! 'What?' I'm not inviting Mark Pittaccio to the Christmas party. 'Oh, that's a bit harsh, boss. All the mystic kooks will be there.' I don't care. He'll bring everyone down with his moaning. Financial shamanism and mysticism should be a joyous thing. I'm sickened by Mark's despair and self-pity. / So, I'm sorry, Mr Pittaccio, if you're reading this, I wish you all the best in your new job at Charles Stanley, but we're not going to have any more dealings with you. I suggest you sort yourself out, son. Life is what you make it, after all.
Well, well ... evil? 'Ha!' / Christ! I bet he's a barrel of laughs at parties, eh? / I'm looking at Mark's LinkedIn profile. He has more than five hundred connections, and three people have recommended him. 'That's a relief, boss.' Why, Voice? 'It means people know him, and like him. It must be a great comfort to him.' Well, maybe. But they can't be with him in the night, can they? As he stares at the stars, wondering, wondering ... What future is there for me? Christopher Aldous says my experience and advisory perspective represents an extremely valuable addition to - uh, whatever! Who cares?! I am so alone! We are all alone! However, we know that there are "higher" ones. Can they help us? What did Rilke say?! Forget Aldous! Oh, what did Rilke say?! "Angels, it seems, don't always know if they're moving among the living or the dead. The drift of eternity drags all the ages of man through both of those spheres, and its sound rises over them both." And, and ... "Does the outer space into which we all dissolve taste of us all? Do the angels absorb only what's theirs, what streamed away from them, or do they sometimes get - as if by mistake - a little of our being too?" I feel so wretched!
Fucking hell! That's it, Voice, I've decided! 'What?' I'm not inviting Mark Pittaccio to the Christmas party. 'Oh, that's a bit harsh, boss. All the mystic kooks will be there.' I don't care. He'll bring everyone down with his moaning. Financial shamanism and mysticism should be a joyous thing. I'm sickened by Mark's despair and self-pity. / So, I'm sorry, Mr Pittaccio, if you're reading this, I wish you all the best in your new job at Charles Stanley, but we're not going to have any more dealings with you. I suggest you sort yourself out, son. Life is what you make it, after all.
