Far too often man forgets, falls prey to the illusion of money and vast wealth. For it is a thin blanket of the feeblest fabric, but it promises the warmth of a thousand suns. He contents himself thus, places it upon himself, wrapped within it confines himself, blinds himself to its shortcomings, the limits of it. Yet in the end wealth proved treacherous, for in life it was a blanket of warmth, yet when the coldness of death approached its warmth disappeared as if it never existed, for it was bound to this world and not of the next where it was of little use.

 

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