Trump is indeed the master of great powers, pointing to the moon with his left hand, pulling the strings with his right, surrounded by you, me, and him, making a splash in the river, what a paper curtain.

The ink on this paper is not yet dry, it looks like a curtain on the stage, brightly decorated with gold powder, but underneath are nothing but worm-eaten holes. Some people wave flags and shout "cut interest rates," saying that energy prices have dropped, and egg prices have also fallen, as if the price tags on the streets are painted with makeup, bowing obediently. But under the vendor's oil lamp, copper coins clink, and the rice bags exchanged are getting lighter— the word "cut" in the ledger is originally written with the sweat of the poor.

Europe's sugar water has been poured seven times, the horse licked its tongue, but its hooves are stuck in the mud and cannot be pulled out. That "Mr. Too Late" holds an abacus, pouring silver ingots into a purse; with the clicking of the beads, nothing but crumbs leaks out. When asked what the tax silver is for? The schools, railways, and warships from a hundred years ago seem like bricks and tiles fallen from the sky, yet people today have to pinch their noses and reach into their pockets. The mouse in the treasury giggles: the hole gets bigger and bigger, and the chaff in the rice jar has become a tribute!

If cutting interest rates could really fill hungry stomachs, why wait for chickens to fly and eggs to break before reciting scriptures? It’s just a puppet pulling strings, the thread tied to gold ingots and ballots. After the people on stage finish singing "no inflation," the audience has long seen through the scars beneath that makeup—who is not just dozing off? Those who pretended to be confused with their eyes wide open are the real stars.