Two Sides

One that comes bubbling up from the basement:

"...[T]herefore grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper's trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse you ache."

(Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes From the Underground).

And one that comes drifting down from the ceiling:



(Hu Ming, The End of Colorful Clouds, 2000).

The Super-Rich

Past a certain point, I believe the paradigm shifts from "object acquisition" to "addiction", with all attendant emotional disturbances and thinking distortions. That's when people say, "Uh, don't you think you have enough?"

But that's like asking someone who's severely addicted to crack, "Uh, don't you think you have enough crack?" And they'd probably reply something along the lines of "Fuck no! What if I run out? And people might be trying to take it away from me!" The addict could be swimming in an ocean of their desire and their thoughts will run to "this could all be taken away! I need more!" The only difference is that the crack addict typically can't use crack to influence legislators to pass laws making it easier for them to procure/retain crack, whereas the very rich can, and do.

Of course, it doesn't take a Cassandra to tell you that obsessively hoarding up huge stocks of something against the animal paranoia of it being taken away will, given enough time, make it all but certain that it will be taken away. You can't keep up that type of enormous imbalance forever. Piling up more and more straw on your camel, thinking "How much I'll have when I get home! Perhaps a few loads more." Meanwhile, the poor beast's knees are beginning to buckle. Keep going. You'll have a dead camel and a useless pile of straw.

Repetition

A well-trodden cemetery plot
For when it's not even worth a shot
A blunt pencil and a piece of paper
A hollow eye and a tongue scraper
a bright round shot like a tracer
a necessary intervention
for a selfish intention
it's education
for my station
until I get sick
and decide to kick
I'll do it over and over