On the day we broke up, I saw my girlfriend get into the landlord's Porsche. I laughed because my delusional eyes had just awakened - the black energy wrapped around her body was more dazzling than the neon lights of the nightclub. She thought she was getting rid of a poor student, but she didn't know that I could see through her secret at a glance: "You have a scar on your uterus, you had an abortion three years ago, and the child is not mine." With 72 hours left, the city's top richest people will line up and kneel in front of me, begging me to change their lives. And she is not even qualified to carry my shoes.
