Adam Smith Every poet glistens with the dew of money, but surely only some of them truly have it. Never enough, wanting to know what enough felt like, I buy fake versions of the things I want on credit, my shelves laden with zirconia, Prada knockoffs, and pirated Oscar screeners. I’m driven by envy, and gluttony, the desire to consume better than anyone else, but the pleasure is only half of what it should be, and so on until my house is filled with objects that belong to Chase and AmEx. I’ve been relentless and I’ve been lucky, but that’s never been enough. I’d sell my soul, but there aren’t any takers.
All Money Is A Matter of Belief
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