There once was an American billionaire, one so powerful and paranoid that he insisted upon being left off all those Forbes lists. He never showed up to Bilderberg or Bohemian Grove, so after a while, he stopped being invited. His name dropped off those lists, too, then eventually out of even the memories of the few men who could possibly be called his peers.
The billionaire died an unhappy man. Unhappy because, despite his wealth, he’d never achieved his dearest dream: He’d wanted to be a writer.