It was the twenties, by age and by the age. It was a wonderful time to be alive, with work to do and parties to attend. It was like three geese standing on a rooftop, honking about their ascension to the top of the world. Gilbert was an investment banker. He was a glorified real estate agent. He sold companies to people who bought them for other companies. Or, really, he made spreadsheets that led people working for companies that they might know what price to pay. He was like a fly on shit, indicating the shittiness by being there, present, rubbing his hands together and attracting other flies with his presence. And so he drank his way through this gilt, the gold, the guilt. And before he left the twenties and his twenties, declared absolutely and without reservation, failure.
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Roman Ryan 