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Look at your hands. Think about what passes between them everyday — the gold, the trade goods, food from your plate.
Your hands are tools, much like the tools that grant us the ability to sow fields and exploit the earth.
What enables them, beyond the particular impetus in our minds to live that day, is the changing chaotic force that guides the markets. The movements, this invisible, grasping hand, forges a path into the stalls, the shops of our kingdoms. Our hands are the tools of this driving, magical force.
We’re but pawns in the spectral game — being sacrificed to move goods at the gods’ necessity and whim. We are used for this one goal.
And an equilibirum shifts, the demand rises, a supply shrinks — and a new perfect pitch is found.
From the West we learn about this third hand. This watchful, discerning eye. She latches onto the booms and busts. And she curses us when the gold sits in our chests, our burial hatches where they lay undisturbed.
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