Somewhere in Manhattan, the modern forbidden city of the new empire, at the summit of one of the towering steel and glass monoliths, was one of the many enclaves of luxury in the sky. It served as a marble crusted sanctuary of indulgence for the robber barons of the world. The penthouse was their answer to the castles the old lords had occupied. Tyler Harris, a 34-year-old hedge fund manager, stood alone on a balcony that overlooked the sea of lights that was the shimmering of the empire's crown jewel. He was a tall and very handsome man in the classical sense. His angular features were chiseled out of lightly tanned skin. His hair was neatly trimmed and gelled, and his sports coat was perfectly pressed with not one visible wrinkle. He stood with perfect posture and radiated confidence. His rise in the rather Darwinian landscape of the financial sector had been nothing short of meteoric. He sipped his drink and leaned over the balcony's railing. He realized he was more
This is a collection of anecdotes from the fringes of reality, a tapestry stitched together from our dreams as well as our nightmares, from the fears that haunt the collective imagination. These are the symptoms of the sickness known as the human condition.