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𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 500… 𝘰𝘳 5𝘔. 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸. [Main logotype Expert Modern Advice](   Hi. We fully expect [this video]( to be removed from the internet at any moment. Fair warning: Viewer discretion is advised. It details a sеrіоus fіnаnсіаl warning from one of America’s richest men. A “one percenter” who has correctly predicted THREE of the biggest market corrections of the past 30 years, including Black Monday in 1987, the dot-com crash in 2000 and the 2008 fіnаnсіаl crisis. Nоw he’s stepping forward with what he’s calling [his most important forecast in 40 years.]( But time is of the essence. He’s spent a lot of time and mоnеу to gеt this message out. The information it contains will surely anger a lot of people “at the top.” That’s why he’s urging as many Americas as possible to watch [this video]( before it’s taken down. [Сlісk hеrе to view it.]( Sincerely, [𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵] Happy! Of the nonsense. He ped laughing. He put his hand into the glove-hole of his front door and let it k his touch. The front door slid . Of course I'm happy. What does she think? I'm not? he asked the quiet rooms. He stood looking up at the ventilator grille in the h and suddenly remembered that something lay behind the grille, something that seemed to peer down at him . He moved his eyes quickly away. What a strange meeting on a strange night. He remembered nothing like it o afternoon a year ago when he had met an old man in the park and they had talked .... Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank w. The girl's face was t, rey quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a sm clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, certainty and king what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses but moving also toward a sun. What? asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite independent of will, habit, and conscience. He glanced back at the w. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you k that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought? What incredible power of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a marionette show, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his hand, each flick of a finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked toher? Three minutes? Five? Yet how large that time seemed . How immense a figure she was on the stage before him; what a shadow she threw on the w with her slender body! He felt that if his eye itched, she might blink. And if the muscles of his jaws stretched imperceptibly, she would yawn long before he would. Why, he thought, that I think of it, she almost seemed to be waiting for me t, in the street, so damned late at night ... . He ed the bedroom door. It was like coming into the cold marbled room of a mausoleum after the moon had set. Complete darkness, not a hint of the silver world outside, the windows tightly shut, the chamber a tomb-world w no sound from the city could penetrate. The room was not empty. He listened. The little mosquito-delicate dancing hum in the air, the electrical murmur of a wasp snug in its special pink warm nest. The music was almost loud enough so he could follow the tune. He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over, and down on itself like a tow skin, like the stuff of a candle burning too long and collapsing and blown out. Darkness. He was not happy. He was not happy. He said the words to himself. He recognized this as the true state of affairs. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run across the lawn with the mask and t was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back. Without turning on the light he imagined how this room would look. His stretched on the bed, uncovered and cold, like a body displayed on the lid of a tomb, her eyes fixed to the ceiling by invisible threads of steel, immovable. And in her ears the little Seashells, the thimble radios tamped tight, and an electronic ocean of sound, of music and talk and music and talk coming in, coming in on the shore of her unsleeping mind. The room was indeed empty. Every night the waves came in and bore her on their tides of sound, floating her, wide-eyed, toward morning. T had been no night in the last two years that Mildred had not swum that sea, had not gladly gone down in it for the third time. The room was cold but nonetheless he felt he could not breathe. He did not wish to the curtains and the French windows, for he did not want the moon to come into the room. So, with the feeling of a man who will die in the next hour for lack of air, he felt his way toward his , separate, and tfore cold bed. An before his foot hit the object on the floor he k he would hit such an object. It was not unlike the feeling he had experienced before turning the corner and almost knocking the girl down. His foot, sending vibrations ahead, received back echoes of the sm barrier across its path even as the foot swung. His foot kicked. The object gave a dull clink and slid in darkness. He stood very straight and listened to the person on the dark bed in the completely featureless night. The breath coming out of the nostrils was so faint it stirred the furthest fringes of , a sm leaf, a black feather, a single fiber of hair. He still did not want outside light. He pulled out his igniter, felt the salamander etched on its silver disc, gave it a flick.... Two moonstones looked up at him in the light of his sm handheld fire; two pale moonstones buried in a creek of clear water over which the of the world ran, not touching them. Mildred ! Her face was like a s-covered island upon which rain might f; but it felt no rain; over which clouds might pass their moving shadows, but she felt no shadow. T was the singing of the thimble-wasps in her tamped-shut ears, and her eyes glass, and breath going in and out, softly, faintly, in and out of her nostrils, and her not caring whether it came or went, went or came. The object he had sent tumbling with his foot glinted under the edge of his own bed. The sm crystal bottle of sleeping-tablets which earlier had been filled with thirty capsules and which lay uncapped and empty in the light of the tiny flare. As he stood t the sky over the house screamed. T was a tremendous ripping sound as if two giant hands had torn ten thousand miles of black linen down the seam. Montag was cut in half. He felt his chest chopped down and split apart. The jet-bombs going over, going over, going over, one two, one two, one two, six of them, nine of them, twelve of them, one and one and one and another and another and another, did the screaming for him. He ed his own mouth and let their shriek come down and out between his bared teeth. The house shook. The flare went out in his hand. The moonstones vanished. He felt his hand plunge toward the tele. The jets were gone. He felt his lips move, brushing the mouthpiece of the . Emergency hospital. A terrible whisper. He felt that the stars had been pulverized by the sound of the black jets and that in the morning the earth would be thought as he stood shivering in the dark, and let his lips go on moving and moving. They had this machine. They had two machines, rey. One of them slid down into your stomach like a black cobra down an echoing well looking for the old water and the old time gatd t. It drank up the green matter that flowed to the top in a slow boil. Did it drink of the darkness? Did it suck out the poisons accumulated with the years? It fed in silence with an occasional sound of inner suffocation and blind searching. It had an Eye. The impersonal operator of the machine could, by wearing a special optical helmet, gaze into the soul of the person whom he was pumping out. What did the Eye see? He did not say. He saw but did not see what the Eye saw. The entire operation was not unlike the digging of a trench in one's yard. The woman on the bed was no more than a hard stratum of marble they had reached. Go on, anyway, shove the bore down, slush up the emptiness, if such a thing could be brought out in the throb of the suction snake. The operator stood smoking a cigarette. The other machine was working too. The other machine was operated by an equy impersonal fellow in non-stainable reddish-brown overs. This machine pumped of the blood from the body and replaced it with fresh blood and serum. Got to clean 'em out both ways, said the operator, standing over the silent woman. No use ting the stomach if you don't clean the blood. that stuff in the blood and the blood hits the brain like a met, bang, a couple of thousand times and the brain just gives up, just quits. it! said Montag. I was just sayin', said the operator. Are you done? said Montag. They shut the machines up tight. We're done. His anger did not even touch them. They stood with the cigarette smoke curling around their noses and into their eyes without making them blink or squint. That's fifty bucks. First, why don't you tell me if she'll be right? Sure, she'll be O.K. We got the mean stuff right in our suitcase , it can't at her . As I said, you take out the old and put in the and you're O.K. Neither of you is an M.D. Why didn't they send an M.D. from Emergency? Hell! the operator's cigarette moved on his lips. We these cases nine or ten a night. Got so many, starting a few years ago, we had the special machines built. With the optical lens, of course, that was ; the rest is ancient. You don't need an M.D., case like this; you need is two handymen, clean up the in half an hour. Look-he started for the door-we gotta go. Just had another on the old earthimble. Ten blocks from . Someone else just jumped the cap of a pillbox. if you need us again. Keep her quiet. We got a contrasedative in her. She'll wake up hungry. So long. And the men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths, the men with the eyes of puff-adders, took up their load of machine and tube, their case of liquid melancholy and the slow dark sludge of less stuff, and strolled out the door. Montag sank down into a chair and looked at this woman. Her eyes were closed , gently, and he put out his hand to feel the warmness of breath on his palm. Mildred, he said, at last. T are too many of us, he thought. T are s of us and that's too many. Nobody ks anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out. Strangers come and take your blood. Good God, who were those men? I saw them before in my ! Half an hour passed. The bloodstream in this woman was and it seemed to have done a thing to her. Her cheeks were very pink and her lips were very fresh and full of color and they looked soft and relaxed. Someone else's blood t. If someone else's flesh and brain and memory. If they could have taken her mind along to the dry-cleaner's and emptied the pockets and steamed and cleansed it and reblocked it and brought it back in the morning. If . . . He got up and put back the curtains and ed the windows wide to let the night air in. It was two o'clock in the morning. Was it an hour ago, Clarisse McClellan in the street, and him coming in, and the dark room and his foot kicking the little crystal bottle? an hour, but the world had melted down and sprung up in a and colorless . Laughter blew across the moon-colored lawn from the house of Clarisse and her father and mother and the uncle who smiled so quietly and so earnestly. Above , their laughter was relaxed and hearty and not forced in any way, coming from the house that was so brightly lit this late at night while the other houses were kept to themselves in darkness. Montag heard the voices talking, talking, talking, giving, talking, weaving, reweaving their hypnotic web. Montag moved out through the French windows and crossed the lawn, without even thinking of it. He stood outside the talking house in their door and whisper, Let me come in. I 't say anything. I just want to listen. What is it you're saying? But instead he stood t, very cold, his face a mask of ice, listening to a man's voice (the uncle?) moving along at an easy pace: Well, after , this is the age of the disposable tissue. Blow your nose on a person, wad them, flush them away, reach for another, blow, wad, flush. Everyone using everyone else's coattails. How are you supposed to root for the team when you don't even have a program or k the s? For that matter, what colour jerseys are they wearing as they trot out on to the field? Montag moved back to his own house, left the window wide, checked Mildred, tucked the covers about her carefully, and then lay down with the moonlight on his cheek-bones and on the frowning ridges in his brow, with the moonlight distilled in each eye to a silver cataract t. One drop of rain. Clarisse. Another drop. Mildred. A third. The uncle. A fourth. The fire tonight. One, Clarisse. Two, Mildred. Three, uncle. Four, fire, One, Mildred, two, Clarisse. One, two, three, four, five, Clarisse, Mildred, uncle, fire, sleeping-tablets, men, disposable tissue, coat-tails, blow, wad, flush, Clarisse, Mildred, uncle, fire, tablets, tissues, blow, wad, flush. One, two, three, one, two, three! Rain. The storm. The uncle laughing. Thunder fing downstairs. The whole world pouring down. The fire gushing up in a volcano. rushing on down around in a spouting roar and rivering stream toward morning. I don't k anything any more, he said, and let a sleep-lozenge dissolve on his tongue. At nine in the morning, Mildred's bed was empty. Montag got up quickly, his heart pumping, and ran down the h and ped at the kitchen door. Toast popped out of the silver toaster, was seized by a spidery metal hand that drenched it with melted butter. Mildred watched the toast delivered to her plate. She had both ears plugged with electronic bees that were humming the hour away. She looked up suddenly, saw him, and nodded. You right? he asked. She was an expert at lip-reading from ten years of apprenticeship at Seashell ear-thimbles. She nodded again. She set the toaster clicking away at another piece of bread. Montag sat down. His said, I don't k why I should be so hungry. She watched his lips casuy. What about last night? Don't you remember? What? Did we have a wild party or something? Feel like I've a hangover. God, I'm hungry. Who was ? A few people, he said. That's what I thought. She chewed her toast. Sore stomach, but I'm hungry as --out. Hope I didn't do anything foolish at the party. No, he said, quietly. The toaster spidered out a piece of buttered bread for him. He held it in his hand, feeling grateful. You don't look so hot yourself, said his . Brian Hunt CEO, InvestorPlace It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some conductor playing the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above , like the old joke, to shove a marshmow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning. Montag grinned the fierce grin of men singed and driven back by flame. He k that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It went away, that. smile, it ever went away, as long as he remembered. He hung up his black-beetle-colored helmet and shined it, he hung his flameproof jacket neatly; he showered luxuriously, and then, whistling, hands in pockets, walked across the upper floor of the fire station and fell down the hole. At the last moment, when disaster seemed positive, he pulled his hands from his pockets and broke his f by grasping the en pole. He slid to a squeaking halt, the heels one inch from the concrete floor downstairs. He walked out of the fire station and along the midnight street toward the subway w the silent, air-propelled train slid soundlessly down its lubricated flue in the earth and let him out with a puff of warm air an to the cream-tiled escalator rising to the suburb. Whistling, he let the escalator waft him into the still night air. He walked toward the comer, thinking little at about nothing in particular. Before he reached the corner, however, he slowed as if a wind had sprung up from , as if someone had ed his . The last few nights he had had the most uncertain feelings about the sidewalk just around the corner , moving in the starlight toward his house. He had felt that a moment prior to his making the turn, someone had been t. The air seemed charged with a special calm as if someone had waited t, quietly, and a moment before he came, simply turned to a shadow and let him through. Perhaps his nose detected a faint perfume, perhaps the skin on the backs of his hands, on his face, felt the temperature rise at this one spot w a person's standing might raise the immediate atmosp ten degrees for an . T was no understanding it. Each time he made the turn, he saw the white, unused, buckling sidewalk, with perhaps, on one night, something vanishing swiftly across a lawn before he could focus his eyes or speak. But , tonight, he slowed almost to a . His inner mind, reaching out to turn the corner for him, had heard the faintest whisper. Breathing? Or was the atmosp compressed merely by someone standing very quietly t, waiting? He turned the corner. The autumn s blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving t seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the s carry her forward. Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling s. Her face was slender and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity. It was a look, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them. Her dress was white and it whispered. He almost thought he heard the motion of her hands as she walked, and the infinitely sm sound , the white stir of her face turning when she discovered she was a moment away from a man who stood in the middle of the pavement waiting. The trees overhead made a sound of letting down their dry rain. The girl ped and looked as if she might pull back in surprise, but instead stood Montag with eyes so dark and shining and alive, that he felt he had said something quite . But he k his mouth had moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized by the salamander on his arm and the phoenixdisc on his chest, he spoke again. Of course, he said, you're a neighbor, aren't you? And you must be-she raised her eyes from his professional symbols-the fireman. Her voice trailed . How oddly you say that. I'd-I'd have kn it with my eyes shut, she said, slowly. What-the smell of kerosene? My always complains, he laughed. You wash it completely. No, you don't, she said, in awe. He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself. Kerosene, he said, because the silence had lengthened, is nothing but perfume to me. Does it seem like that, rey? Of course. Why not? She gave herself time to think of it. I don't k. She turned to face the sidewalk going toward their s. Do you mind if I walk back with you? I'm Clarisse McClellan. Clarisse. Guy Montag. Come along. What are you doing out so late wandering around? How old are you? They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and t was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and he looked around and realized this was quite impossible, so late in the year. T was the girl walking with him , her face bright as s in the moonlight, and he k she was working his questions around, seeking answers she could possibly give. Well, she said, I'm seventeen and I'm crazy. My uncle says the two always go toher. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. Isn't this a nice time of night to walk? I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up night, walking, and watch the sun rise. They walked on again in silence and finy she said, thoughtfully, You k, I'm not afraid of you at . He was surprised. Why should you be? So many people are. Afraid of firemen, I mean. But you're just a man, after ... He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything t, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him , was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity but-what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. , when he was a child, in a power-failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and t had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transed, hoping that the power might not come on again too .... And then Clarisse McClellan said: Do you mind if I ask? How long have you worked at being a fireman? Since I was twenty, ten years ago. Do you ever read any of the books you bum? He laughed. That's against the law! Oh. Of course. It's fine work. Monday bum Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, then bum the ashes. That's our icial slogan. They walked still further and the girl said, Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them? No. Houses. have always been fireproof, take my word for it. Strange. I heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to the flames. He laughed. She glanced quickly over. Why are you laughing? I don't k. He started to laugh again and ped Why? You laugh when I haven't been funny and you answer right . You to think what I've asked you. He ped walking, You are an odd one, he said, looking at her. Haven't you any respect? I don't mean to be insulting. It's just, I love to watch people too much, I guess. Well, doesn't this mean anything to you? He tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his char-colored sleeve. Yes, she whispered. She increased her pace. Have you ever watched the jet cars racing on the boulevards down that way? You're changing the subject! I sometimes think drivers don't k what grass is, or flowers, because they see them slowly, she said. If you showed a driver a green blur, Oh yes! he'd say, that's grass! A pink blur? That's a rosegarden! White blurs are houses. Brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove slowly on a highway once. He drove forty miles an hour and they jailed him for two days. Isn't that funny, and sad, too? You think too many things, said Montag, uneasily. I rarely watch the 'parlor ws' or go to races or Fun Parks. So I've lots of time for crazy thoughts, I guess. Have you seen the twohundred-foot-long billboards in the country beyond town? Did you k that once billboards were twenty feet long? But cars started rushing by so quickly they had to stretch the advertising out so it would last. I didn't k that! Montag laughed abruptly. Bet I k something else you don't. T's dew on the grass in the morning. He suddenly couldn't remember if he had kn this or not, and it made him quite irritable. And if you look-she nodded at the sky-t's a man in the moon. He hadn't looked for a long time. They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house its lights were blazing. What's going on? Montag had rarely seen that many house lights. Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, rarer. My uncle was arrested another time-did I tell you?-for being a pedestrian. Oh, we're most peculiar. But what do you talk about? She laughed at this. Good night! She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember something and came back to look at him with der and curiosity. Are you happy? she said. Am I what? he cried. But she was gone-running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently. 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