Pony tails wagging in the laissez breeze. Racing along the lakeside, making bubbles with their havana. They crash. The traders are bleeding. Passersby call for help. Then they complain. thump their chest, cry out. I would just as soon we let them bleed out. until they cry so loudly we can’t sleep. if they can’t say thank you. if they won’t cry uncle, then let them cry to each other. we can clean up the blood later.

Everyone is a day trader. Play with your dough all day, but take it home at night. That’s what is happening. Morning: money in. Night: money out.