The tycoon looked over the bright city that he had conquered. Though it was the middle of the night, the city remained pulsing with light and sound, as if it were an angler fish deep in the cold trenches of the pacific; no concept of day or night, only concerned of consuming and reproducing. A light tinkling of jazz music emanated from the open glass door, but out on the terrace it registered as much as the faint car alarms and sirens going off ninety floors below. The tycoon cleared his mind; the terrace was his only escape from the almost constant demands and calls of managing such a vast fortune. Then he began to think back to his days as a young man. There were so many missed opportunities, so many potential girlfriends shunned, so many alternate careers and lives ignored, and why? So he could have this moment. So he could look back and say to himself that he was glad he sacrificed so much to get so far. What could possibly replace going to Paris every weekend, or having a top floor penthouse in one of the most desired buildings in New York City? Now that he had all this wealth, couldn’t he be free to enjoy it? Why wouldn’t someone be happy with an inexhaustible amount of money and resources? Why did he feel so alone? He had had many flings since his time in school when he studied day and night. After all, money attracts beautiful women like a pile of manure attracts flies. He considered why, at his point of triumph, after summiting the top of the mountain that is called success, after burning so many bridges in order to build his own, he felt so empty. He felt so alone. Then a gust of wind blew him from the terrace and he plummeted to his demise. It was in this way that he was swept into the dust from which he came, Like a bright golden leaf falling from a tree as brisk autumn ushers in cold, cruel winter.