Inequality isn’t just a word drifting in the breeze—it’s a raw, exposed nerve, twitching, screaming. Resources—economic, social, cultural—aren’t just unevenly distributed; they’re hoarded, stacked, locked away. And that imbalance? It crackles like static electricity across the planet. The poor? Trapped. Running in place, clawing for survival, too exhausted to dream. The elites? Marinating in excess. Wrapped so tightly in their own comfort they float above it all, gazing down like gods from glass towers, detached, weightless. They could shift the scales. They don’t. And yet—here’s the illusion, the sugar-coated paradox: everything is tied up in a neat bow. Wrapped, packaged, presented as harmony, as if supremacy itself is a kind of sweetness.