grasping, so, he places the paper,
made flat to stack, in the
storeroom, these notes that will
grow grey, then golden, over the
course, the term of years set down
in inky black, always more and
more, and more again, singularly
unsurfeited he is, the small
voice in his soul bellowing, belligerent,
in polyester trousers, crowned with
beads of sweat, the veins roping out
of his neck, coursing blue--he
cannot
get
enough
to satisfy the counting-house of
his mind, the calculations of
compounding interest lulling him,
finally,
into fretful sleep
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