I drank coffee into the afternoon and planned my gets, as if I were a comic book villain. Yes, I've read the Stoics, but so often we get it all turned around, heart of stone, bombardier stare and all that.
Meanwhile, all soft and creamy on the inside.
And that's the point, and maybe what Epstein was figuring out. "You climb whatever mountain you need to climb. But get this done!" You sit alone in your rooms, working your puzzle, alternating between loving yourself and hating yourself. Is it worthwhile? Am I worthwhile? The answers, at once elusive and not "at hand", lie beyond, in the distance, where a stupid glow sits on the horizon, like a hot breath fogging in a cold car.
Or at least you think the answers are there, like its kind of innate knowledge, that the little itch-scratching satisfaction is right there, just a hair away from the fingertips.
He was in the upper floors, trying to talk to a hostile gold shield from IAB and the stuff went down quick: guns drawn, people tied up with electrical tape, taped to office furniture. Rapid Response initiated a breach, made entry "in anger", some people apparently got kilded. He was at the window, helicopters swirling about, people in the street at the police barriers, news crews watching, whole world suddenly interested in the pension fund, and he screams, daring them, "YOU WANT MY BLOOD?"
His wife was among the most surprised, because she was watching from her couch, when the network news coverage broke into regular programming. She was sitting right there stroking their prized pet, a ewe, and she was also positively about to spit bullets with all her tension.
I couldn't see living a life
where I hung my head in shame;
I might have been born plain white trash,
but Fancy was my name!
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