Listening to a piece about the world’s billionaires. All the ones younger than thirty directly inherited their wealth. They’re calling it the first wave of the great wealth transfer. Some magnanimous baby boomers are even leaning toward the ‘giving while living’ trend as long as the exchange is an extension of the self. An entrepreneurial approach to descendants. The coal daddy flex. Some got rich off tech and mining. Others’ music and chemicals. One of them invested in fidelity, another appropriated Cambodian daughters. Women are still woefully underrepresented. Nine of the ten richest women received their fortunes from either fathers or husbands. Kim Kardashian makes more than Taylor Swift. Who knew. I’m driving past the shops at Warrawong, and there is an ambulance and a patrol car, a cop is either consoling or about to cuff a young woman on the steps of Camilla’s Nails and Spa. The rain is falling heavily, washing away any sense of evidence or crowds. I can’t listen to this podcast anymore. There is a floor that gives out once you stack the odds too high. I let the algorithm respond to my distance from the upper crust. What music do these three-comma kids listen to? It would have been Vanilla Ice or yacht rock back in the day, making love in a two-way mirror to Best of Steely Dan. Now it’s likely to be a Katy Perry (Drake remix) on repeat, a bit of post-profit edginess, stumbling out of a space shuttle into waiting limo in the prosecco hours. No strangers to party life itself: Musk dodges invisible darts dancing to Daft Punk in his Tesla Cybertruck, Bezos maintains a steadfast lack of interest in soul music whilst studying the effects of zero gravity on Amazon and the aging rate of the common housefly. Streaming reduces the wing claps of cicadas; the bottom of a mine shaft is simply the best place to crush invertebrates. Gina shows her soft side by sitting next to Guy Sebastian whilst crooning Dig, Baby, Dig, on the gravy train of minted friends. The rain is starting to really come down, the real estate has kindly sent an email warning tenants to sandbag the property and call if anything we don’t own gets wet. Housing is a vehicle for growing others’ personal wealth. I turn onto ‘my’ street. No stray cats or dogs in the sky, just cut diamonds and crypto, cockroach nymphs emerge from the earth’s strata seeking tiny homes. To be young and full of bonds, to hum bridges in the infinity pool, to be loaded like the old man’s cum. Fair is the colour of no money. I find a dead rat in the laundry. Major wealth’s inherent attraction, the cascade of cash breaking its banks, reeling in the gift of family. I dry my skin with a dirty towel and ponder the limits of nepobaby life insurance. I roll up into a serviceable ball, knowing Feng shui doesn’t like these low ceilings. The overwatered money plant drops its coin-like leaves. I water it again. We can’t help but shake this feeling.