The Market, or so they say, has sent you – his single most abhorrent speculator, the most insignificant trader, a data point that was most certainly made up when an interviewer ran out of ink – only to you has the Market sent a message from his deathbed. He has had the messenger be part of prominent news organizations; so important was the message that he made him put quotation marks on it. He solidified its importance of the message that he added bold and italics. And then, before everyone assembled to witness his death – every limit would be filled, zero spreads/no commission, unknown capital would be allocated – before them all, he has dispatched the messenger. The messenger sets off immediately, sometimes talking on one side of his mouth, sometimes the other, he pushes through the noise; when he meets resistance he points to his badge – an acronym with much meaning, and he forges ahead with an effort that was nonexistent. But the masses are so big, their lack of depth is infinite. If only he was the only one talking, how profound he would sound; soon you would most definitely hear him talking to himself. But instead, with the vanity of his efforts; he is still only forcing his thoughts through the inner most chatter; he will never reach it, and even if he did he’d be no closer; he would have to fight all the water coolers, and even if he did he’d be no closer; he would still have to deal with the social sites, and then more chatter, and so on for a thousand thousand years or so, and even if he did blast through all the chatter – which of course could never, ever happen – the markets beliefs, the center of the world, overflowing with the hubris of humanity, would still await him. There is no one who could force his way through here, least of all with a message from a dead man. – But you sit at your screen and dream it up as the morning bell begins to ring.