The money

He was the son of a very rich old man, and he thought of nothing besides the money.

Each day he’d waste away, in the backyard pool, lazing on the lawn, sometimes never getting out of bed, always thinking, thinking, thinking about the money.

And why not? He had nothing else to worry about. He’d be well off forever.

His father died, and gave the money to an unnamed charity, where it was whittled away. 

Now, he lies in the street, or on a subway car, or in an ATM booth, and thinks of nothing, nothing, nothing.

Except the money.