Ah, Plebbit, my cruel tormentor, steady at 4.8 million market cap, unmoving as if frozen in time. Day after day, I watch other coins rise, riches spilling into the hands of their holders, while I stay loyal to thee. Each night, I dream of millions—no, billions—thy rightful destiny. And each morning, I wake to find thee still, unchanging, mocking my faith. Around me, others rejoice, tossing their inflated coins in the air like jubilant children at play. But my Plebbit ball lies deflated, lifeless, not even fit for a single kick. Still, I clutch it close, refusing to let go. Each day, a fool whispers, “Sell thy Plebbit, free thyself from this misery.” And each day, I scream, “No! I will never sell!” But as I hold fast, I feel my strength fade. Another coin skyrockets, and I lose another strand of hair. My dreams crumble, and the years drain from my soul. I am tired, so tired, fevered and broken, my vitality slipping away. Plebbit, thou art my hope and my ruin, my obsession and my burden. When, oh when, wilt thou rise and fulfill thy destiny? another day, another over.