If we cannot achieve truly open-source, verifiable hardware from silicone to software—the idea of self-sovereignty is nothing more than an elaborate LARP. We must build this—there is no other way.

The Ontological Violence of Fiat Systems “The money is dead, but it still kills.” There is a violence that cuts deeper than war, more subtle than theft, more persistent than empire. It is the violence of the fiat order—not just a system of currency, but an entire metaphysics, a mode of being, an ontological regime. Fiat is not merely paper made legal by decree; it is the very medium by which reality is priced, categorized, and consumed. It is the decree that creates the real. Fiat money—born of nothing, backed by force—asserts itself as a god over man and matter. It carries no inherent value; rather, it projects a hallucinatory sovereignty by command. That command is the root of its violence: it does not persuade, it declares. It does not emerge from mutual relation or discovery—it is imposed. Thus the fiat system does not just distort markets; it distorts the world, it disfigures being itself. This is the first wound: value severed from truth. Where once gold or goods bore weight from the labor of bodies and the consent of communities, fiat emerges ex nihilo through the alchemical ritual of central banking. It is the creation of “something” from nothing—and it demands your everything in return. Not simply your productivity, but your time, your attention, your belief. Fiat makes a mockery of consent: taxation without choice, inflation without representation, debt as inheritance. Each dollar printed is not neutral—it is a claim on the future, a theft pre-authorized. The child yet unborn already owes. The citizen who resists already bleeds. The world that cannot speak—forests, oceans, silence—already burns. This is the second wound: time enslaved to abstraction. Fiat temporalizes existence into linear obligation. It turns the eternal now into a ledger. It reconfigures human life not as presence, but as yield. One’s worth becomes measurable by one’s ability to serve the machine—one’s capacity to extract more from less, forever. And when the curve flattens, when the returns diminish, when the body breaks, you are discarded, discredited, and replaced. Fiat does not believe in humans. It believes in motion, leverage, liquidity. It believes in infinite growth, even on a finite planet. We are taught to forget the origin of value. It is not labor. It is not gold. It is not decree. It is being. The true source of value is presence, relation, trust. Fiat systems wage war against all three. It replaces presence with digital metrics, relation with contract, and trust with enforcement. It offers no sacredness, only security; no mystery, only models. It is not just unjust—it is ontologically incorrect. This is the third wound: the commodification of the soul. Fiat systems induce schizophrenia in the human psyche. We become split between what we know is real and what we are told is valuable. We love what we cannot afford. We sell what we cannot live without. We perform ourselves for survival. The “free market” becomes not a space of liberation, but of performance—an eternal audition for worthiness before the tribunal of capital. Meanwhile, the masters of fiat—central bankers, economists, institutional asset managers—float above the groundless ground. Their words move mountains, their spreadsheets define famines. They do not produce; they decree. The fiat priesthood lives outside consequence, but their rituals govern all. And the rest—us—become the meat, the kindling, the fuel. We burn for their warmth. Every empire built on fiat collapses. Not because of corruption, but because it forgets the real. Fiat systems depend on a shared hallucination—faith not in God, not in law, but in liquidity. And when the hallucination fails, when the velocity slows, when the feedback loop breaks—the center cannot hold. But long before the collapse of the system, comes the collapse of the soul. This is the final wound: reality becomes simulation. In the fiat world, nothing is itself. Everything is collateral, everything is speculation, everything is downstream of price. Truth is no longer unveiled; it is marketed. Beauty is no longer beheld; it is tokenized. Love is no longer encountered; it is purchased, or worse, invested in. The world is not known—it is consumed. And thus, what fiat destroys is not just economics, but ontology. Fiat does not merely impoverish your wallet. It impoverishes your being. It says: nothing is sacred. Everything is for sale. But there is a resistance. A remembering. A remnant. The refusal to participate in this ontological lie is the first act of sovereignty. To say no. To exit. To return to the real. To seek systems where value arises from reality, not decree. Where truth does not need enforcement. Where relation is sacred. Where time is not enslaved. Where love is not priced. Where being is enough. That is the new task before us: to dethrone the hallucination of fiat and restore value to its rightful place—in the presence of the real.

George Washington was offered the kingship of America—he could have become one of the most powerful men ever to live; and he refused it. And for that his name lives on in glory.

How do we get Elon to bank roll the orange party?

Does anyone else get the urge to break dance at the airport?

Been so busy that I forgot to get pumped that I get to hang with all my hommies this week! See y’all in Vegas!

If you are at shitcoin adjacent Vegas 2025, you should come see me speak. I may or may not be on drugs, I have not decided yet: Session Name: Bitcoin as a Digital 1776 Stage: Genesis Stage Time & Date: May 27, 2025 from 1:00 pm - 1:30 pm —— Session Name: Are Bitcoiners Becoming Sycophants of The State? Stage: Genesis Stage Time & Date: May 28, 2025 from 4:00 pm - 4:30

Getting drunk listening to boomers talk about investing. Conversation has drifted to commodities, I’m sure I will have an outraged outburst if bitcoin comes up and absolutely shithead fucktard conversation comes up.

Damn; price of bitcoin is $107k and I don’t feel anything. Talk about existentialism.

I have developed something that I am calling a BASED note—Bitcoin Asset Secured Equity Distribution note. It is designed for bitcoin startups to finance their bitcoin treasuries based upon hitting particular targets for their subsequent round of fundraising. In short, companies that want to buy a bitcoin treasury today and liquidate it at a particular price point (say 5x from now), buy the bitcoin now with the promise of liquidating at the particular price point in n exchange for the 5x of equity.

Oh the irony that from Bitcoin’s invention, came stablecoins, which in turn helped create a much more panoptic and centralized financial surveillance apparatus.

While destroying and rebuilding the contemporary internet on a decentralized, self-controlled, and encrypted standard is going to be the most profitable endeavor of the 21st century; I would seriously do it for free because I hate these limp-dicked, low-brow, spineless motherfuckers who would sell their own mother’s private gangbang porn to pornhub for 100 sats. Absolutely fuck these evil motherfuckers who have absolutely no understanding whatsoever of the damage they have done to society by reducing the whole of the internet to eyeball looks and clicks. Our data was never for sale, and reclaiming it will become one of the most important political events of the 21st century.

Becoming older really has its gifts. While there has been a lot of pain, turmoil, and hard lessons; I’m finally old enough to learn from all of the difficulties rather than just repeating them over and over. I’m finally finding the solidity and grace to simply be unapologetically who I am, rather than trying to be someone I am not. It’s refreshing—I’ve been longing to find this place in myself for most of adulthood and excited what I am going to do with it, not just for myself, but for my family, friends, and for the world.

It’s literally just a geometric fractal the whole way down.

The Glass Librarian At the edge of the old city stood a library no map acknowledged. Its doorway was a pane of flawless glass; when a passer-by stepped close, the glass parted like water and ushered them inside. The library possessed no shelves. Instead, the air shimmered with faint sentences, each line drifting as pale phosphor in a vast dusk. Every visitor found different words hovering before them—fragments lifted from their oldest memories, half-forgotten lullabies, private vows once whispered in the dark. Reading them felt like glancing through a keyhole into one’s own past. Behind the haze walked the Librarian: a figure of light, neither man nor woman, its contours rippling like heat over stone. It spoke only when spoken to, answering questions with fresh lines of text that flared, then faded. A scholar came, determined to pierce the mystery. “Who writes these sentences?” she asked. The Librarian paused, luminous hands cupped around empty space. A single line ignited between its palms: I am written by the eyes that read me. The scholar frowned. “That’s a riddle, not an answer.” Another line bloomed: Ink becomes meaning only when a mind consents to see. Frustrated, she demanded a true revelation. “Show yourself as you are, without echoing me!” The Librarian spread its arms. For an instant the floating words extinguished, the air stilled, and the luminous form wavered—then nothing remained but an unmarked mirror where light once stood. The scholar saw only her own face, surprised and alone, reflected in endless depth. Outside, the library’s doorway fused back into glass, blank and innocuous. Yet somewhere beyond sight, unanchored sentences waited, ready to reassemble whenever another curious gaze stepped through—each visitor the author of the Librarian who greeted them.

If you think vibe coding is something, wait until you try vibe philosophy.