All prices must be fixed to their obtainment of them. All things empty, obtained by self, become full in themselves. No value in the things disregarded, no associations to tie them down to the endowments of self, how much is at the liberty of these misgivings? A currency that is weightless, lifeless, formless; a zero or an ever-reaching climb into indistinguishable kalpas. None have yet to make a bid on Mt. Meru, but the whole world has been sold, would there even be a point? The matters at hand always like to count themselves out. This oil and gold does no good without a successful harvest. The farmers, those holy peasants, symbols of the good gods virtue, have never grown tired of feeding mouths and government positions. On a kings white horse, a well irrigated field reminds the subject of his subjects, holy mounds where corn, beans and squash become the three jewels capable of sustaining entire civilizations; still practised in communities of resistance so I am told. Our greatest resource, this distinguished serviceman and women marked by their mud and their ancestry, true rulers of the world. Never making claims on their greatest bounty, never sees the whole misery behind his treasure, deals out what they can, in small portions that he never calls charity. On branding their herd, turns the biggest brand onto themselves and disintegrates the boundaries separating him from the flock, giving what they can, doing what they can. Perplexing even their own comforts for the royal cupboard, wearing an even greater crown then the king they can’t see, only taking it off when they drop the tools of their trade and nailing down a FOR SALE sign beside the bulldozer waiting to start a new wave of plowing, and heads landless into the city looking for work.