The City and the Banker.

The city would be stone walls and bricks, with ghostly memories that are captured in graffiti if the bodies of flesh are stripped away.  5 am Sunday morning when the last swingers stagger into the glaring light of the early Sunday summer morning their eyes stinging from outside and needled by alcohol from inside.

There is silence now, the occasional clatter as the Sunday morning paper is rushed around the city. Where have all the bankers gone? The bankers memory is manifested by the odd beer glass, as monument, scattered about the sidewalks lonely and empty of contents, but covered by the DNA of the passing souls.

A brief respite for those men in their black suits dawns into reality.

A brief encounter festooned with a silky smooth voice over a telephone, there speaks a quality honed to cajole any unsuspecting client into security and out of his money, “Don’t worry. It will work, I have it all under control.” how scary is that?

This banker I meet, out and lost from his city. A capable human being. So engrossed in paper and computer screens that life has travelled a long way before the opportunities “to stop and smell the roses” presents itself.

It is time now to reflect on that which has not been done, irritating though it may seem, it needs to be done.

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