Markus Stone

Markus Stone

Steel Without Flesh

Giant iridescent soap bubbles drifting across weathered stone steps in front of a faded building.

Quantity dazzles at parades, but wars are not won by hulls and hardware. They are won by scar tissue, trust, and the muscle memory of failure. From Stalin’s tank waves to China’s carriers and Russia’s humiliation in Ukraine, the real test is not how much metal you can build, but how much flesh you can trust.

The Silence of the Cradles

Elderly couple sitting on a park bench, watching an empty playground with a toy train and climbing structures, symbolizing declining birthrates.

In the late ’80s, everyone swore mankind was about to breed itself into oblivion. Experts preached famine, collapse, and demographic doom. I didn’t buy it. Even at 18, peeling potatoes in a barracks kitchen, I saw the opposite coming: shrinking families, empty schools, villages fading into retirement homes. The prophets were wrong. The cook was right.

Contentment Is a Discipline

Children running barefoot at sunset, rolling tires through dust, silhouettes glowing in golden light.

In a Libreville forest clearing, I found a barefoot family laughing harder than most executives after a promotion. They had nothing—and everything. Contentment wasn’t a reward but infrastructure. Meanwhile, I flew business class, racked up air miles, and slept under remote-controlled curtains—still miserable. Turns out, the best things in life really are free.

The Machine Will Not Save You

Weathered road sign reading “UTOPIE,” pointing toward an overgrown path.

AI isn't a mechanical messiah. It exposes you. Feed it vagueness, get polished sludge. Show up sharp—it's leverage that multiplies clarity. Show up lazy—it amplifies your bullshit. It demands labor, precision, and the humility to answer uncomfortable questions. Not a free ride. A mirror that sharpens the sharp and humiliates the inattentive every single time.

Never Again, Until Again

Black-and-white photograph of a barbed-wire fence and concrete wall with a warning sign reading “Halt! Stoj!” marked with a skull and crossbones.

I grew up in Austria with the bassline of “never again” humming through every lesson, every warning, every civic ritual. We thought we had inoculated ourselves against tyranny. Yet when fear came wrapped in the language of safety, it was the respectable middle who snapped on the jackboots—and the majority who clapped.

The Deadly Fear of Offending

Old gas mask hanging in a decayed, abandoned room, symbolizing survival, danger, and the hidden cost of silence.

There are places where politeness is fatal. Not just Tehran boardrooms, but suburban dinner tables, cockpits, and clean rooms. We’ve built cultures where the fear of offending outweighs the fear of dying. Silence isn’t neutral—it’s complicity. Survival doesn’t belong to the courteous; it belongs to those willing to interrupt before the crash.