Poor bastard...
Someone Scrooge-like was fumbling with a light contraption and burnt off his Rudolph Rudder in the process: which is his capacity for original thought. The deposed illuminant of all things chic and kinetic, right?

Right.

that's what we used to think. Climbed the corporate ladder, amassed a fortune to the point of a golden porch; a checkbook that seemed to talk back and even had an automated face - put to rest the resentment of old folks towards old folks because
well, it sucks to get old
and to be around other ancient others reminds one of...mortality.

being around a McScroogester, peg-legged, saddened by the distant scent of black and white films, a tasteless Yin&Yang sugar cookie for the lactaid intolerable.
But there were majestic years, there were boardwalks and satin dresses and enormous celebrations and electric lovemaking sessions, tragedies and battles and bursting warmth victories. We won't take for granted the high times, the sunshine-lasts-forever moments that remind an older person they used to be glorious.
What's temporary about it? This illumination... this vivid vein of contained goodness, thrill, and conviction. This existence wasn't all for naught.

He died a rich fellow, after all...