Blank Page

[sierra]

I’m sitting at a desk on the 1st floor in the library with Eric Winchester, Damon Ferris and Alain Rochdale, my sense of time impaired, my stomach contorting with hunger, glaring vacantly at the windows, faintly pretending to listen to Damon talking about the unprecedented profitability potential of microfinance-backed-securities and the 16GB memory on his Apple iPhone. I’m wearing a white skin-tight v-neck tee with platinum contrast piping from Versace, Stonehenge-blue five-pocket button-fly Kuratt 70Z jeans by Diesel, a white and sapphire stamped-dye baseball cap from Prada and camelskin sueded drivers with calfskin lining from D&G which cost £190. I and these individuals I’m with; nominally, my friends; convene here on the 1st floor every Tuesday after the 14:00 corporate finance lecture to simulate a functional conversation by anxiously tossing arbitrary, intangible machine input at one other in an absurd competition to establish which one of us has spent our time the least usefully.

“Excuse me gentlemen, but what is the optimal frappuccino to order at Starbucks in front of an MD?” asks Fitzpatrick, a slimy, arrogant cocksucker who last summer interned in Fixed Income at Goldman Sachs.

“If available, the Dulce de Leche with caramel drizzled whipped cream is simply sublime and second to none. Otherwise, the raspberry and blackcurrant blended juice is crisp and revitalising to drink, and it also uses more real fruit juice than most other fraps, which are composed primarily of premixed concentrate”, I regurgitate monotonously, still gazing at the windows, my mind leagues away, not in a state sensible to common reason, not sharing any explicable relationship with any agent of normality, not even actually able to remember his question. Fizzing jets of static line the perimeter of my vision, seducing my pupils, fastening my jaws together, draining the colour from my cheeks. A curious, alien dread wells up in me, unsettles me profoundly, inhabits and converges with me. Maintaining a grasp on reality is literally, perhaps entirely, a physical effort, somewhere in the hollowed, dark core of my cerebellum a poisoned lobe throbs and twists and I’m constantly wrestling it into submission and the struggle renders me fragile; as though one jolt too many could very well just snap the final crooked string on my fretboard of sanity, liberating my hysteria from its captor.

“The… Cohiba Siglo II… is the most… aromatic… Petit Corona on the market”, I stammer between gulps, hoping desperately that the comment was at least dubiously relevant. Eric is on a tirade about the morality of stem cell research legislation, the statistical variances of four little-known roulette strategies, the rules for wearing coloured scarves with conservative business suits and how much more exciting Morgan Stanley’s forex trading internship is than Barclays Capital’s (he boasts to females that he interned at both, but in reality he only did the first-year one-week spring programme at BarCap). Alain is glaring impatiently at him, his eyes furious, willing him to shut up so he can interject with devastatingly useless information of his own.

[The_BoneLESS]

please write a book sierra,
you would make me the happiest boy in town

[A.K.B.]

Yeah, seriously, just make a fucking pusblished work. I would sure as hell buy it if I had money.

[Grace]

the funny thing is i actually would too ^^

[Mawane]

And seriously, if you write an elma book, I'll buy it for sure! Prolly many lauta kuskis too, agree?

[Palme]

noone needs an elma book.
But his style in writing is really impressive.

[A.K.B.]

Yeah, an elma book would be rucking fubbish.

Which schoal did sierra attend/teach at?