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January 6, 2010
In a warped way, Gary was Buddhist with money. He accepted it for itself, not for any latent power or potential pleasure that spending could bring to himself or others. It was what it was: its smell, the aesthetic appeal of the shiny security tape, the rustling sound of new bills being counted. He even let loose change accumulate in his front pocket so he could feel the pleasing weight of it against his crotch. He asked nothing of it, except that it flourish within the secure confines of his bank account, free from the dissipations of a generous soul.