THE FUTURE OF MONEY Bernard A. Lietaer - library.uniteddiversity ...

what was left of his hair. The comb pilled out a big chunk of grey,
thin kinky hair. He didn't even notice.
He used to be so beautiful. My God, now he looked 60 years old,
and he was only 16. He looked into my eyes, and he saw my pity,
which I could not hide from him. He whispered, 'Don't worry,
Katherine. It doesn't hurt.' I knew he was lying. All expression in his
face was lost. He didn't have the muscle control.
He smelled like a rotting egg, but he was really a rotting boy. His
lips were blue and cracked. I kissed my friend softly. He tasted like
metal on a 90-degree day. With every step he wheezed, soft little
crackles. And I didn't want to touch him for fear that he might
crumble and fall beneath my stroke. I helped him sit down on a
bench. It was cold, grey concrete. He looked up at the sky and then at
the trees around him. 'There aren't any trees where I live,' he
whispered as he tried to hide a tear rolling over his face.
And then he passed out, snared into his dark, odd, black sleep,
where reality was just a fragment of his imagination and death and
suffering reigned. Blood trickled down from his parched lips. His
lungs were bleeding, and he reddened the bench with the serum of
his suffering. The blood dripped onto his blue sweatshirt, and then
the flowing stopped.
And he lay on that bench for hours in his sleep, and I held him. The
blood would flow, and then it would cease. Then it would start again.
But, the suffering never stopped, and it was only then that I realised
that my dark angel was dying. But, in reality, he was already dead.
***
Addison grew up in a black ghetto called Hunters Point in San
Francisco. He was beaten up for being a good student and by seventh