Here we sit in our trenches, waiting for the whistle to sound as we are all led over the top by a pistol touting lieutenant to our certain death. Cpmppi is scratching out a farewell letter to his loved ones hoping it catches the last carrier pigeon home, Nemo is weeping out a mournful lament on a battered mouth organ and Polemic is polishing his boots so at least he looks smart in death. TMM can hear similar preparations in the trenches around them.
The rest of the Macro Platoon, battered and worn fighting decay and regulators are writing letters to their investors explaining why they have to say goodbye.
The bond boys, knowing that fiscal policy dominance over monetary in their key indebted nations' markets lament the day they could rely on their central banks to move short term rates and prepare for their last charge upon the debt of Europe. Death or glory.
The Equity boys, haven't had any rations delivered for months and are so malnourished they need to make this final push or face starvation.
The commodity boys, took a pounding from enemy artillery in the spring offensive and are now stunned and gibberish in their fox holes.
The young lads in the quant RV trenches. Poor souls, some as young as 12, only just out of their mothers arms and thrown out to the front lines to face annihilation at the hands of the broken correlations.
Meanwhile the venture capitalists' biplanes drone overheard scouting for new opportunities. Their relevance to the greater effort at times questionable and their average lifespans pitifully short. Death comes all too soon in the tangled wreckage of their machines.
And yet we all sit here, awaiting the call to go over the top on the orders of Generals who sit in their comfortable salons in Brussels and Frankfurt, playing with our cheap lives as but part of their parlour games. Oh, the futility.
"Nemo, are my boots shiny enough?"...
"Yes Polemic - Your Mum would be very proud of you"
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