We ignored the warning signs. Collapse isn’t a spectacle—it’s slow rot, disguised as everyday routine. We’ve turned denial into a national pastime while society ossifies into performance art. Mercy isn’t saving what’s dead—it’s pulling the plug. And when the lights fade, we realize we were the ones inflating the exit signs.
A darkly amused chronicle of collapse in slow motion. While the world obsessed over clickbait and dopamine hits, the scaffolding of normalcy quietly gave way. This is a dispatch for the aware, the exiled, and the half-mad—those still wondering if they’re the crazy ones for noticing that it all seems... over.
I once guarded a Saudi prince who lived in the largest suite of the hotel—and still never left it for months. A man atop the world, imprisoned in his own luxury. That was when I realized: wealth doesn’t liberate, it embalms. Simplicity, not opulence, keeps the fire alive. How Rocky are you?
Human rights sound glorious—until you notice who’s selling them. From Cyrus the Great’s PR stunts to the French Revolution’s blood-soaked proclamations, the pattern is the same: noble words masking power plays. Without teeth, rights are just poetry in a dead language—diplomatic wallpaper covering the cracks of a crumbling moral order.
The fourth Starship–Superheavy test flight wasn’t just spectacle — it was a glimpse of space stripped of its fragile, overengineered preciousness. With cheap, reusable launchers and orbital service hubs, spacecraft could be built like machinery, not Fabergé eggs. The moment space becomes boring, predictable, and industrial is the moment the real future begins.
In the Cold War, we expected history to end in one blinding flash. Instead, globalization is collapsing in slow motion—tariffs, piracy, and space races replacing the clean drama of mushroom clouds. The old order is dead, the “after” already upon us, and America is shifting into a louder, more dangerous gear. Buckle in.