The idea that money can’t buy you happiness is so true. It can afford you a certain lifestyle, allow for many possessions, make you friends and position you in society. But it can’t make you truly happy. I believe that collecting things, whatever they may be, is actually a sign of sorrow and an attempt to fill a void. In looking at my own “collecting habit” I’ve learned that the thing that makes me happiest is the design and anticipation. The temporary happiness after that is quickly vanquished so as the misery creeps back in I repeat the process at great personal expense and loss. I’ve often wondered if I like leather jackets at all...I don’t think I do. I certainly admire them but... They are never my first choice when leaving the house. Yet I return to them because of the above mentioned ancillary aspects I enjoy. So I watched children in Africa with massive lacerations on their shaved heads scoop water out of puddles into discarded paint buckets sing me a good morning song everyday. Dancing and smiling in tattered clothing and busted shoes. With full hearts and the kind of happiness I have seldom, very briefly known. So who is the rich person in this scenario? I have material comforts that they do not. But I suspect they are rich in a way that I cannot ever be and will never even understand. Perhaps I do, when I have my wife and daughter snuggled up under each arm and we are truly together. Sorry for the semi-tangent stream of consciousness. Airing it out on Sunday I guess.