I don't understand the value of a dollar. I know it is entirely true. My father grew up in a poor farming family. Imagine all those nights dreaming of green paper and pretty coins. I know why they are, but I don't understand why they are. White carpet, white walls, white ceilings, white and white and white. It hurts my head. It makes me want to slaughter them and stain everything so it won't be so white anymore. Unsanitize everything. Even their underwear matches. My father is at least not as bad as they are: he is unselfish with his money. It is important to him to have money, but he spends it on other people. He told me that he finds possessions a burden. However, he has a coin collection. Silver and gold in mint condition with carvings of Lady Liberty, a panda, a hole in the middle. He is still fascinated by the white light reflected off of shiny little pieces of metal. I remember he used to give my sister and I so many coins, thinking we would also be distracted. He still does, but not so many anymore. Having money, we did not wish for it. We wished for a father who wasn't so distant at the white hospitals with the white corridors and the white latex gloves. We are biological contamination. Humans are not sanitary; don't come close.