cash flow jungle

the erratic downfalls and surges of your world. your blind vision. your insane figures with values that i cannot count. the way the heeled soles of your black leather shoes click against the ugly sound of concrete.

and you think you've got it all, but you don't. i despise you. you and your half-empty champagne glasses, and the cell phone that rings constantly with your broker in the line. hey, why not give him a special ringtone? you're on the line more often with him than your wife.

the blood oozes out of your medium-rare steak, the same way you draw blood from strangers who play your games on the losing end. they're the reason why you drive a flaming red ferrari convertible while they struggle with their mortgage payments. your fingertips tap impatiently against your wine glass stem, you're looking for more... more... more...

and like i say, i, a useless teenager who feeds on the wealth of the previous generation. i, too, am guilty of my own excesses. my drink, my perpetually plugged in headphones, my buzzing laptop.

maybe, we, the weak useless generation of parasites, are no better than you. and yet, we are far better than you can ever be.

we dream of what we can be. you dream of what you should be, with your heavy lidded eyes of dollar signs.