Those beautiful beasts run away with your money.
You keep putting your bet through the machine without watching them race.
You don’t see their form. You pick them based on a name, or something it meant. That is disconnected from what you are really doing, what everyone is doing in this race.
The syndicate who takes your money does not give it to the horse, nor its owner. None of them know you or who you are.
They do not see your form. They know you as a name attached to a donor.
You turn aspirations into cash, with the conviction that the transaction makes them valid or real.
You think you’re living your dream.
But you’re not.
Some things you cannot pay for.
Some things you cannot buy.
The thrill is your own pound of flesh.
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