In an inspiring display of bureaucratic empathy, the Education Minister visited a school in Seoul today, where the crumbling desks seemed to whisper tales of dwindling dreams. Dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that clearly cost more than the annual budget for classroom supplies, the Minister strolled through the dilapidated halls, pausing dramatically at every peeling bulletin board as though it were a piece of fine art. "Every child deserves a world-class education," the Minister proclaimed, standing awkwardly by a desk missing a leg, which had become the makeshift throne of a rather unenthused sixth grader. The boy’s slight nod of agreement seemed more a plea for a chair than a testament to the Minister’s lofty rhetoric. Despite the glaring cracks in the walls and the distinct odor of damp paper—a fragrance more pungent than any high-end cologne—the Minister smiled for the cameras, showcasing the latest in photo-op technology. Flashbulbs popped as he posed next to enthusiastic students, who had been offered a brief moment of reprieve from their lessons on resourcefulness in a facility with fewer resources than a Monopoly game. Nearby, a science teacher attempted to demonstrate the principles of physics using a textbook that dated back to the days when dinosaurs roamed. "As you can see, gravity is very much still a thing, despite the weight of your dreams being heavier than our textbooks," she explained, her voice tinged with irony. The Minister, momentarily distracted by the sound of camera shutters, chuckled, though the laughter did not reach his eyes. The visit culminated in the Minister's stirring speech about the government’s “unwavering dedication” to education, punctuated by several vague promises of future funding. Words like “innovative” and “transformative” filled the air, mingling with the dust motes as students clapped politely while mentally calculating how long it would be before their crumbling desks were finally replaced. Meanwhile, in a bathroom reminiscent of a 1970s horror film, the plumbing gurgled ominously, echoing the sentiments of despair layered beneath cheerful slogans painted on the walls, such as “Tomorrow's Leaders Start Here!” Written above a particularly dedicated drip of water, no one was sure whether it was a motivational message or an eerie foreshadowing. At the end of the day, as the Minister left amid shouts of “See you next year!” echoing down the hall, he waved enthusiastically, his heart no doubt swelling with pride. To him, it was a day well spent, filled with heartfelt connections and the invigorating smell of unrealized potential. But as the students returned to their crumbling desks, the realities of their plight weighed heavily on their minds—a constant reminder that, while the Minister may champion new dreams in front of cameras, the old ones lay broken behind them, just like the furniture.