In the tender years marked by a yearning for wisdom, the counsel imparted by paternal wisdom lingered in my consciousness. It implored a suspension of judgment, a heedful reminder of the uneven hand with which life’s privileges are dealt. Yet, such endurance of patience has its bounds, and upon my return from the lush landscapes of affluence, it was only Gatsby who escapes my disillusionment’s net. This being, marked by a lustrous fervor for life and its boundless possibilities, stood apart, his very essence a beacon of aspiration unfound in the rest.

Rooted in the mellow soil of the Midwest’s nobility for generations, I found myself drawn eastward, propelled by restless currents following the Great War. The pursuit of fiscal acumen beckoned and amidst congenial landscapes traded for urban terrain, I found my abode. Here, amidst the ceaseless hum of proximity to New York’s heart, two indistinguishable landmasses emerge, cradling tales yet untold within their shore-kissed embrace. It is against this backdrop of ceaseless opportunity and the incandescent allure of dreams pursued where life, as if by command of the summer’s kiss, dares to reinvent itself once more.