But this is no opera. This is my life, and I am hopelessly poor. Common as a speck of sand in the desert. What am I to do with myself? All my money gone before my eyes. The people will hate me. All those times I ignored their pleas for help and donations, and now I’m the one who needs them. Ugh, what atrocities! No. Wait… I can make this work. A movement—yes. The people love some- thing to throw their support behind. I’m not poor at all—no—I’m reform- ing this wicked country, freed from the grasp of consumerism. Oh—that’s good. I can work with this. Money is the root of all evil, after all, and I am a glorified survivor. A savior among men. Oh, goodness, this is brilliance ! I shall remodel the future landscape of our world. I’m not the god they asked for, but am I ever the one they need. I let my head drape over the back of my sofa as my eyes meet the ornate chandelier overhead. I’m reminded of all the balls at which I’d so woefully bragged about this same fixture. I needed to save myself if it meant I could brag again. Lying can’t be all that bad if it can save my reputation. I’d say it sounds like a very good thing indeed.
***
“Oh, beautiful and endearing people, it is with great horror I admit the error of my ways.” The back of my hand instinctively moves to my fore - head. “For money is the root of destruction and the seed of our downfall!” My peacock feather-lined cape drags the ground as my arms gesture wider still. The masses line my luxurious gardens, which will soon fall to ruin despite it all. They take uneasy glances at one another. How dare they doubt the sincerity of my actions!
“Money is a vile spirit!” I declare, leaving no room for doubt. “I urge you,
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