And he did.

He got up at 4:15 in the morning, wearing briefs. A muggy summer shot in from the french doors he refused to shut. The heat blasted in, from the whole of downtown. From thousands of souls asleep and computers and energy flowing up the construction of this humanity. Silence and noise, all at once, from that balcony into the loft. The whole of Wall Street breathed into his room. Lights went on. First day of his life at this hour. It was not for a flight. It was for his life. Light switches on. Walked across the loft to the bathroom. Loft deserted. Only a spring box, a mattress he carried in from the street container. And that boombox, which his younger brother rescued from the hallways of a residential dorm, his biggest treasure: cassettes and CDs. Shower on. Just a morning. The first however. This time. This hour. He felt compelled to sit and look around. He sat in the corner of the spring box with his elbows on his knees and his hands on his chin. Wall gazing. Heating feeling. Water dropping. He thought: "are you going to do this?" Minutes later, he did: a walk in the streets, a traverse under skyscrapers, skipping through trash collection trucks and men showering the streets with water. It all felt Asian, yet it was New oh and a York. And he stood. Did not think twice but looked up. Up to his building, pass Security, into the forsaken office lights, now awake. The first building of the island. #1. Elevator, 50th floor. And there he was. Trading floor lights went on. He switched them form that moment daily. Not a soul in sight. He milked the markets. His choice. His opportunity. His hour. No one ever knew. Companies went public under him. Equities got allocated. Markets got made. And that was that. A life. His.