But what does he need from me? Why do I have to expect something even if I am not interested in anything he can provide? What can I give him but my death? This is his traffic. We bring him our deaths. Death has been already for a long time the weighing scales, perhaps as a point in the infinite, of our actions and omissions. It is our value, our price. We made a deposit with this value. And the question is: What will he do with our deaths? Will he be able to leverage the investment and make something of so many worthless gestures and grimaces? We have reasons for the discouragement: too big a picture out of such poor quality pigments. Time commands to start anew and afresh every moment, and this is real vermin for the necessary memory. And it is not realistic to have to think of the lord as an old man taking pains to remember. Perhaps abandoning himself to remembrance. In all events, we very far away form the mature and strong ruling man. And our crowd of little deaths without Hermes and without Zeus, are not likely to yield anything else than a big pocket of unemployment.
We should not lose sight of the fact that the value of our work is impossible to determine before we get to the market and we happen to exchange it for a value that can still simply reflect a high proportional demand or a high supply. The market is, indeed, that scale in the infinite, where we see our value calculated.
