Fast Living

There was something about me that people liked. Rich people, wealthy people, I drew them to me. People of independent means, people born into it, bred from it, people of astute financial affluence. When I began to wonder what it was, when it began to concern me, they left. As long as I remained happy not to know, they were happy to have me around. I lived a life of fast cars and machined apartments. Bars with no signs on the toilets, just colours, or symbols, drinks consisting of nothing but garnish. I was a plaything of the rich, always on hand with a quip or a cutting remark. Always there to show card tricks to their friends, or produce sponge rabbits from the ear of whoever it was they were trying to penetrate that night. Not exactly something to write home about. After a while I'd had enough. I quit going to the bars, I stopped answering the calls, I walked away from the money. Some people tell me I'm poorer for it. I don't know, maybe they're right. All I know is I can afford to be wrong.