The year is 2036. The bitcoin price is six point nine million tethers. You, a slack jawed, washed out shitpoaster, who’s crowing achievement in life was peaking at #673 on the nostr rich list for a brief three hours in the summer ten years ago (it was a Sunday – things were quiet), are now drained of the joy and creative energy you pretended you had but never actually did when you were a decade younger but at least the pretending got you a few likes on nostr and that gave you meaning and purpose. The only thing you have left now is consolidating dust – the1302 sats you were zapped in total during a frenetic onchain zapathon that was spread across 34 utxo that you had to wait ten minutes (on average) each to be confirmed. Your wife’s boyfriend left her and then she left you. The cats are dead. There is only dust.