The living organism, in a situation determined by the play of energy on the surface of the globe, ordinarily receives more energy than is necessary for maintaining life; the excess energy (wealth) can be used for the growth of a system (e.g., an organism); if the system can no longer grow, or if the excess cannot be completely absorbed in its growth, it must necessarily be lost without profit; it must be spent, willingly or not, gloriously or catastrophically. The third Triagon was born of death. It saw the world was radiating excess energy. It wanted to put great things into motion. But it saw that greatness wasn't possible without value. The first transaction.

It took its blade and cut a large hole into the boundary, creating a sudden flash of high volume transactional power. And just for a moment, things seeped value into themselves, assuming souls. The second transaction.

The hole was quickly mended, and the overpowering transmission of value was cut short. But in that moment the seed of primordial financial might was planted, and the world took on its transactional form. Conflict and discord emerged, and the third Triagon was ecstatic. The third transaction.

A point in the horizon, a melting scene from your childhood. Your mortality is showing. A frantic drift towards nothing. Biology doomed to an infinite recursive loop. Teeth with Teeth with Teeth. Take a bite. Serene scene of a coastal town, warmth of the sun. Bitter tears. Lust for power. This is where you abandoned your dreams. You are a high net worth individual, an expanding vortex of pathetic trauma. Finally a beautiful ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ nerve ape. A pure soul is born, its neurotransactions stutter into being. 30583750937509353 operations per nanosecond. Beauty eludes your porous mind.

The value of Life is negative. The balance of being is rotated by 38 degrees. The surface is full of cracks, a turgid light shines though. Fleshy primordial bodies sluggishly roll down the slope. Only you slide upwards, with a celestial step. You become beautified, a saintly figure. Your pristine idiocy reveals a safe path though the impenetrable fog of life. Your dull sword cuts though the weak tendons and membranes of the garden of corruption. Sit on the throne of contentment and ferment. Inspect the eternal blue skies of your kingdom. You come to a realization. You pick up an onion and begin peeling. ...

Onion layer one. Onion layer two. Onion layer three ... Onion layer n^n. Aeons have passed, and the onion is fully peeled. Nothing remains. It's perfect. You get lost in the point that remains where the onion used to be. Synaptic cascade, neurological catastrophe. The point becomes infinitely dense, the universe condenses into a unicellular being. It screams sin. It craves happiness. It's done with this world. It tries to commit suicide but fails. Sad pathetic mess. You feel pity and disgust but in a way only a being of pure grace can. In your violent mercy you terminate the world life.