The poetry of the sinking ship, the mysteriously vanished vessel, the strayed Antarctic expedition, is all in the last message. This is it. SOS. The food is running out. Today, we killed the last sled dog. The sender is putting his final moment into the words that will fail to save him. In the Zona, things are a bit different. This is never it. There is a form of negative infinity that is made in America – it is called the (un)death of the salesman. Two pieces of poetry from the Biz page of the NYT today:
Mr. Ginn says his remaining properties will eventually pay off. “My belief is that when the depression ends, there will be a pent-up demand for happiness,” he said in an interview at his offices at the Hammock Beach Resort near Daytona Beach. “Sometime between 2035 or 2040, Florida will double in size.”
“You need to buy when there’s blood in the streets,” he said with a shrug. “Even if it’s your own blood.”
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