They smirk from the page, framed by condemnation and reports of golden handshakes. The one on the right is worth sixty-million dollars. No wonder he's gloating. Paying no mind to lives destroyed by rash decisions made around grand boardrooms, all that wheeling and dealing done over lattes and under the table. The one on the left is even richer. A little older, he looks distinctly evil. Piercing blue eyes, dead and deadly, like a hawk's. These men can demolish lives with a demotion, decimate families with decimal points. How lovely it must be to wield power so recklessly! To live such a high life; not only do the people below look like ants, they are treated in kind.
Maybe I speak with the bitter jealousy of the poor. The person who said that money doesn't make you happy was definitely a pauper. I'm not saying that dollars could buy contentment, let's just say that I wouldn't mind weeping in the luxury of a nine-bedroom palace. When it comes down to it, I can empathise with the men in the photo. I know the feeling well; how easy it is to become carried away with self-importance. If power is the ultimate aphrodesiac, all that money must really make their dicks hard. Salivating in anticipation of turning ten to twenty, twenty to a hundred. So what if you have to tread on a few toes? That's life, sweetheart.
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He glares down at us, framed by a cramped apartment and some gaudy prints. He has that hunch that only the poor have - a stoop caused by the acceptance of the hardships of life; oh, woe is me. No wonder he looks unhappy. He has no power to speak of, just his daily routine; sex (maybe) and baubles. Eating, shitting and fucking. What a life. I don't know how they stand for it. Then again, it seems to me that most of them take it lying down. What else to do? His life is a tragic comedy. How dreary it must be to exist without luxury. Then again
Maybe I'm just saying that because I'm rich.
