5 most promising Fintech startups
Jess Wilder
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Mar 17, 2023
I gauge the talent in my sport cat, and to your outthrust and concerned hand I’ll offer a certain brace. There’s a restaurant you mentioned last night, I’ll say, beside a jazz club. And it may enjoy us, trying as hard as we want, gliding in. then gliding out. I am more than ready for that and would need only prepare.
We regard each other again. Are we acting insufferably bourgeois? How much do we care about such things? (We don’t.) (Should we? And do we? Here lies the pain of the question: we can go—)
—We can find ourselves some lovely costumes and enjoy the world as it literally burns. We have done and will do our work, but what stories could we share about wanting to do more, and being denied? “So many,” you say, downcast, and I hold your hand more carefully. We do what’s asked of us, but we are capitalists, and the world needn’t ask us anymore for permission to change itself. Neither of us keeps a home we don’t let out and we don’t keep cars because we’ve so often been alone; we ride trains. Take a plane when necessary. We cannot ethically consume until a system for such consumption is created, and until our opinion is asked and active acceptance of our desire for rapid change is demonstrated, we will enjoy our first dress in three years, and our suit to replace the one stolen between Bozeman and Chicago just before Thanksgiving, and eat our second round of brisket and—Christ, did they refill our glasses of champagne while we were talking and missed it entirely? How literally ironic.
We turn back to the window. “The world isn’t asking us to lead by example,” you say. I nod. It shows us its indifference, and we love it for how it leaves us room to smile at each other and graze our fingertips over the backs of each other’s hands to feel as though we’re in fact touching our own. There’s the same regret over not seeing our plans for a better world in our scuttled plans for being popular in school or having friends who were as desperate as we were to stay up all night and talk about everything and nothing. Those were the harmful fantasies, that exalted our nebulous talent through songs and stories, and ignored the fuel necessary to carry them off. We never fantasized about the weeks of rehearsal when dreaming of playing an arena. “I lost a lot of time trying,” I tell you, and you finish my sentence with grim yet clear access to your own personal history: “There was no amount of trying that was going to feel good without appropriate reciprocation.”
Pg, 389
That reciprocation was only accessible on the course of a murderous race. You add there’s nothing BUT joy in reciprocation, within oneself, wherein one’s work begets more appreciation, begets more work, and more appreciation. We knew what it would take. We know what it takes and know what it will take. It remains only our responsibility to share that information when asked, and people don’t ask. We wore ourselves out for years, shouting it separately, to friends and strangers, finding at best sympathetic nods and darkly clever jokes.
Our knowledge isn’t privileged. Our talents have not assigned us the job of convincing people they should allow themselves to be convinced by us, and after a time, enough becomes enough.
A person can feel some supreme personal annoyance when they feel they’re the subject of an argument that accuses them of laziness; of selfishness. How could we possibly know them, or how hard they’ve pushed? What causes they’ve championed? It does feel itchily uncomfortable to them, to feel accused of that which they are certain was not their problem, either.
Have mercy on us for even suggesting they were only ever willing to take care of their own before it was too late. Have mercy on us for suggesting they might have tried on the concept of compassion for all creatures well before the zeitgeist suggested it. Have mercy on us for even thinking “that’s not how it works” is a poor excuse for any inaction. There are more discriminations in heaven and earth that are dreamt of in conference rooms.
I gauge the talent in my sport cat, and to your outthrust and concerned hand I’ll offer a certain brace. There’s a restaurant you mentioned last night, I’ll say, beside a jazz club. And it may enjoy us, trying as hard as we want, gliding in. then gliding out. I am more than ready for that and would need only prepare.
We regard each other again. Are we acting insufferably bourgeois? How much do we care about such things? (We don’t.) (Should we? And do we? Here lies the pain of the question: we can go—)
—We can find ourselves some lovely costumes and enjoy the world as it literally burns. We have done and will do our work, but what stories could we share about wanting to do more, and being denied? “So many,” you say, downcast, and I hold your hand more carefully. We do what’s asked of us, but we are capitalists, and the world needn’t ask us anymore for permission to change itself. Neither of us keeps a home we don’t let out and we don’t keep cars because we’ve so often been alone; we ride trains. Take a plane when necessary. We cannot ethically consume until a system for such consumption is created, and until our opinion is asked and active acceptance of our desire for rapid change is demonstrated, we will enjoy our first dress in three years, and our suit to replace the one stolen between Bozeman and Chicago just before Thanksgiving, and eat our second round of brisket and—Christ, did they refill our glasses of champagne while we were talking and missed it entirely? How literally ironic.
We turn back to the window. “The world isn’t asking us to lead by example,” you say. I nod. It shows us its indifference, and we love it for how it leaves us room to smile at each other and graze our fingertips over the backs of each other’s hands to feel as though we’re in fact touching our own. There’s the same regret over not seeing our plans for a better world in our scuttled plans for being popular in school or having friends who were as desperate as we were to stay up all night and talk about everything and nothing. Those were the harmful fantasies, that exalted our nebulous talent through songs and stories, and ignored the fuel necessary to carry them off. We never fantasized about the weeks of rehearsal when dreaming of playing an arena. “I lost a lot of time trying,” I tell you, and you finish my sentence with grim yet clear access to your own personal history: “There was no amount of trying that was going to feel good without appropriate reciprocation.”
Pg, 389
That reciprocation was only accessible on the course of a murderous race. You add there’s nothing BUT joy in reciprocation, within oneself, wherein one’s work begets more appreciation, begets more work, and more appreciation. We knew what it would take. We know what it takes and know what it will take. It remains only our responsibility to share that information when asked, and people don’t ask. We wore ourselves out for years, shouting it separately, to friends and strangers, finding at best sympathetic nods and darkly clever jokes.
Our knowledge isn’t privileged. Our talents have not assigned us the job of convincing people they should allow themselves to be convinced by us, and after a time, enough becomes enough.
A person can feel some supreme personal annoyance when they feel they’re the subject of an argument that accuses them of laziness; of selfishness. How could we possibly know them, or how hard they’ve pushed? What causes they’ve championed? It does feel itchily uncomfortable to them, to feel accused of that which they are certain was not their problem, either.
Have mercy on us for even suggesting they were only ever willing to take care of their own before it was too late. Have mercy on us for suggesting they might have tried on the concept of compassion for all creatures well before the zeitgeist suggested it. Have mercy on us for even thinking “that’s not how it works” is a poor excuse for any inaction. There are more discriminations in heaven and earth that are dreamt of in conference rooms.
I gauge the talent in my sport cat, and to your outthrust and concerned hand I’ll offer a certain brace. There’s a restaurant you mentioned last night, I’ll say, beside a jazz club. And it may enjoy us, trying as hard as we want, gliding in. then gliding out. I am more than ready for that and would need only prepare.
We regard each other again. Are we acting insufferably bourgeois? How much do we care about such things? (We don’t.) (Should we? And do we? Here lies the pain of the question: we can go—)
—We can find ourselves some lovely costumes and enjoy the world as it literally burns. We have done and will do our work, but what stories could we share about wanting to do more, and being denied? “So many,” you say, downcast, and I hold your hand more carefully. We do what’s asked of us, but we are capitalists, and the world needn’t ask us anymore for permission to change itself. Neither of us keeps a home we don’t let out and we don’t keep cars because we’ve so often been alone; we ride trains. Take a plane when necessary. We cannot ethically consume until a system for such consumption is created, and until our opinion is asked and active acceptance of our desire for rapid change is demonstrated, we will enjoy our first dress in three years, and our suit to replace the one stolen between Bozeman and Chicago just before Thanksgiving, and eat our second round of brisket and—Christ, did they refill our glasses of champagne while we were talking and missed it entirely? How literally ironic.
We turn back to the window. “The world isn’t asking us to lead by example,” you say. I nod. It shows us its indifference, and we love it for how it leaves us room to smile at each other and graze our fingertips over the backs of each other’s hands to feel as though we’re in fact touching our own. There’s the same regret over not seeing our plans for a better world in our scuttled plans for being popular in school or having friends who were as desperate as we were to stay up all night and talk about everything and nothing. Those were the harmful fantasies, that exalted our nebulous talent through songs and stories, and ignored the fuel necessary to carry them off. We never fantasized about the weeks of rehearsal when dreaming of playing an arena. “I lost a lot of time trying,” I tell you, and you finish my sentence with grim yet clear access to your own personal history: “There was no amount of trying that was going to feel good without appropriate reciprocation.”
Pg, 389
That reciprocation was only accessible on the course of a murderous race. You add there’s nothing BUT joy in reciprocation, within oneself, wherein one’s work begets more appreciation, begets more work, and more appreciation. We knew what it would take. We know what it takes and know what it will take. It remains only our responsibility to share that information when asked, and people don’t ask. We wore ourselves out for years, shouting it separately, to friends and strangers, finding at best sympathetic nods and darkly clever jokes.
Our knowledge isn’t privileged. Our talents have not assigned us the job of convincing people they should allow themselves to be convinced by us, and after a time, enough becomes enough.
A person can feel some supreme personal annoyance when they feel they’re the subject of an argument that accuses them of laziness; of selfishness. How could we possibly know them, or how hard they’ve pushed? What causes they’ve championed? It does feel itchily uncomfortable to them, to feel accused of that which they are certain was not their problem, either.
Have mercy on us for even suggesting they were only ever willing to take care of their own before it was too late. Have mercy on us for suggesting they might have tried on the concept of compassion for all creatures well before the zeitgeist suggested it. Have mercy on us for even thinking “that’s not how it works” is a poor excuse for any inaction. There are more discriminations in heaven and earth that are dreamt of in conference rooms.