A Day in the Life

They keep goading me, guiding me—my friends—and I, tied like an ox to the yoke, pull forward this plow of destiny, snorting, fuming, and unable to stop.

For, I sold long ago—and my price is loyalty, and no man like myself can be bought for less. And, I shall tell you what it is like to be schizophrenic, for out of politeness, or courtesy, or both—nobody has asked for my portrayal.

Yet I am the highest of artists, and the scenes I paint with words bathe the mind in balmy, soothing heat—equally cool and furious. What an insult!

Inside my mind is a desolate, war-torn battlefield—demons and dragons shepherding the skies and standing guard over rivers of molten rock.

Each line, each boundary—in question. What am I?—and who am I?—persistent, prodding, and prevalent, to the point of madness.

And for a moment, I am white and blond, raising my right arm—indeed—in salute. Or, I place between a cunt my tongue—and the woman turns to man, and I, to homosexual.

There is no safety in this raging hellscape!—but to stand tall and conquer dragons and demons alike.

Philosophy is a blood sport—not for little children or old men! No, to the fighting youth, does it belong, the gladiator and warrior of the mind, for civilizations rise and fall on the basis of principle alone.

And did the Romans have virtue?—the Greeks, inquiry?—the Americans, liberty?—and the Chinese, fatherhood?

Do you iconoclast tear down the marble temples of another people, another world? Oh, be careful of the ghosts and curses that may land upon your head! The old man, trembling and frail, has lived his life enough—and my like shall take your load off your shoulders.

Beastly, nightmarish scenes!—the white skull of an alien, long and teardrop-shaped, with a glint in black, pitch-black intelligent eyes, the clicking of a dolphin.

“Oh, humanity, do I have plans for you!”

The hard, sturdy oak tree, bearded and wise, benevolent—puppet on the strings for an evil warlord, the fattened pig with thick rubbery jowls, sunglasses and a battle-ax. The bow-and-arrow, “saggitarious,” the archer firing flaming wit into my eye and out the back of my skull. And how do you spell that Latin word?—for my spell-checker says it is wrong.

Cursed Romans, who never put spaces between their words, but little inscrutable dots. What a nightmare!—but I shall repair their image.

And they say I am a poet, but I am more—and my heart burns fierce and my ego stronger, still. For I have a technical project, and it shall be an artistic masterpiece, and its name is “Aurum.” The Bitcoin bridge I began long ago—that I shall tidy up and complete.

It shall use Go and the Cosmos SDK—because Go is easy to read, and one does not protest the system until it breaks upon him.

There shall be no more than 32 signers—for any more is a vanity metric, and we work within the confines of two existing systems. Between Bitcoin and Ethereum, shall it travel—the original of coins, and the first of general-purpose chains.

On the left, using Schnorr signatures—and on the right, using native BLS12-381 signatures, in the contract. Each validator shall participate as a signer and oracle—for the price feed provides stability to a system otherwise vulnerable and volatile.

Users pay one fee—no more, no less—and place their trust in crypto-economic security, harder than loathsome reputation.

Because Bitcoin is the King of chains, and I have designed the logo, and it is stunning—and it is Jove throwing a thunderbolt from Heaven, and my project shall shake the Earth.

And I tire, for I must wrap up this piece—and this is on-hold, besides, until the clothing line is up and operational.

But poet, and I spit, and I curse. I shall not raise money—too proud and too noble—and, before I forget, a few more details that I found tricky in my last attempt.

The tokenomics shall be time-based—not supply-based—and there shall be a fixed-supply, and we shall assume constant usage, because we are handsome men who count on our work paying dividends. And the blocks shall not have custom fields—but validators shall send transactions with each of their contributions, for I appreciate deliberate imperfection, and there is nothing as gorgeous as a lazy man gets away with it.

There shall be three contracts on Ethereum—one verification, one entrypoint, and one token, the former replaceable, and the latter standard-issue with “batch” functionality. But, I digress, for the difficulty in each technical project is in the beginning, and he who builds on sand is doomed to slip.

And where were we?—but speaking of the Romans and their lack of aesthetic. Indeed, it is a fallacy today that we design for other people.

No, we design for ourselves—for the sake of our sanity, and to create a bulwark against each and every enemy we have known or imagined. For, they shall come, and we must be ready!—because no worthy enemy shall leave a flaw unexploited.

And what is the point of a focus group?—are these the warriors with whom you shall defend your Kingdom? No, the real artist uses courage and wields his pen as a sword, twice mightier and equally as brave as the soldier, he who influences the heart and mind of a people to defend the values and principles he holds most dear.

For, art scales—and war does not. What is the point of living in San Francisco, if you do not drain startup wisdom for all of its nuggets and hidden treasures?

And I have more to say on design, and my Bible, which I wrote for my friend, is merely Genesis—and I have work to do! It shall include technical knowledge and wisdom and answers to the questions that people did not know they had.

Oh, impossible task!—but half the work is in conception and visualization, and he who can paint a scene of dreamy memory is perhaps nearer than he thinks.

And why did I learn the spoken word, to twist and turn in passage of phrase a simple idea to show it complex, diverse, and profound? But—alas—I lacked attention as a child, and now I seek it, hungry and desperate, and I weave a world of poetry that I may share it with people and they respond!

Oh, how I feast upon your attention!—and how it is not enough, for in this hunger, I bite the back of a bear, furry and malcontent, only to distract myself from the war raging in my mind.

And, indeed, the war continues in this stormy, thunderous landscape I call consciousness—nor does it cease in the night, for I see nightmares, flying saucers and bright, artificial lights. Oh, screaming hallucination!—what a load of ambition, and so many problems, but these my voices, give voice to my writing, and I merely sit and wait until I hear the calm, clarion signal from Heaven.

Through these fingers does God type!—or, so it feels to me, torn perhaps between madness and crystal clear lucidity, battling back thoughts and shadowy figures disagreeable until they cede into the horizon, and the bright, clear rays of sunshine illuminate cloudless day.

“Oh, just a day in the life.”