There is no privilege in thinking.
There is no privilege in seeing no privilege
I am entitled to by this affect if aged
at the sharp edge and sublime light
past me the the shining grudge of numbers:
do the markets move (they move) —
WE DID NOT HAVE LIMITS CONSTRAINING THE NOMINAL AMOUNTS
as there was a beginning first growth
came before rivers before understanding
but who says groceries or feather-beds or lace curtains or perfume
or intellectual property or colour film
or commodity. A carton of cigarettes.
We dream lines. We play games. Weave and cut.
Any point is uniquely determined
by its chronological past or its future
OF POSITIONS THAT WOULD CLEARLY HAVE FLAGGED THE PURCHASES AS TOO LARGE AND CONCENTRATED
Alice in this city orphaned again and not by
accident I knew you or did I know. Upriver, the ice.
Time teaches loss, teaches desire, learns some maybe
your red winter coat and the black birds
and sick with it and fastened to a dying economy
bedclothes tangled on the floor as I read
different rivers carry us
where there needs be no losers —
FOR THE UNDERLYING LIQUIDITY OF THE MARKET
The difference has no limit just corners.
There has never been a revolution.
Synergies will never make up for the bid premium.
A photograph of Emma Goldman, Rosa Luxemburg and Simone de Beauvoir on the beach smoking pipes (1930s) posted on the internet
out of order a set even if all at once the stable causality
condition holds everywhere if and only if there is a function whose gradient is everywhere timelike
DESPITE THE FACT THAT THE RISK EQUIVALENT OF THE PURCHASES WERE WITH IN
Look close. It breaks. Look closer. It breaks
again. Look close and closer.
Years become years. Years become months, days.
Minutes, seconds. A crown of milliseconds.
A thorn bush, an embrace of points and moments:
bring your hands together a little bit
and time passes just a little, scratches, draws
blood without feeling arms flung around now, now, now.
Thorns. Now. Look. It's broken.