Waltz at the End of History

Your invitation to the ball comes in the form of a $200/mo subscription. Next week, it’ll be $500. No, a thousand. No, a billion. And you’ll pay it because they say you need to dance, so you dance

Oh you don’t have compute? Welcome to the permanent underclass. I’m here and you’re here and he’s here too even though he works at the Lab. He joined later. He’s only here in his mind.

Open X. You’re not moving fast enough. You won’t escape. No, wait you’re fine. You’ll be safe and the price is 5 tranched rounds and the spark in your eyes. Move faster. Sell the RL environment. That’s so played out. You’re a physical guy now. Robotics. No, metals. Whatever gets you In right? Because if you’re not In, you’re Out. And there’s no salvation for the Out.

Open Instagram. You see the ad, and then the real Ad. Everyone was at Chez Margaux last night. Oh, you weren’t at the peptide omakase house party? She’s in St. Barths and he’s in Seoul and they hit 500k followers, and you’re somewhere in the Backrooms of your own design. Give up. Scroll. It’s only worth doing if They say it's worth doing, and They say it’s worth doing if you can make an Ad, so if you can’t make an Ad, then why do at all?

Outsource your taste. The face on the feed says you should like vintage 996s and F.P. Journe and care about Wimbledon, so you do and they do, and everyone wears the same types of leather jacket and is learning backgammon because that's taste. Didn’t you know? We’re all stealing from Douyin anyways.

Outsource your conviction. The Man in the Arena says you need to compound. So you’ll ape the 888th dog coin. The Anon says that Ferrero Rocher is a chip bottleneck. You think that’s stupid. It goes up 500% in 2 days and you’re back to betting the over on a 3rd round pick, because the guy with an anime girl profile pic made a million dollars on $GOON this week and you didn’t and that’s all that matters. Compound.

Thiel says you’re not taking enough risk. That it’s better to be Evil and Competent than Good and Mediocre. You nod along sagely and agree and stress the importance of irreverence before going back to building your new dating app that for sure this time is going to get everyone married.

The Labs guys hate the Market guys and the Market guys hate the Lab guys. You’re promoting gambling. You’re telling everyone they’re going to be unemployed and die and live forever and be happy at the same time. You’re stupid. No, you’re stupid. Maybe we’re all stupid, but it doesn’t matter because at least we’re not as stupid as the next guy.

Rates are above 5%. It’s the end of the world. Actually it’s not because we’re past the gold standard and the petrodollar and we’re now the tech dollar. The government and Coreweave compete for the same money, and somehow the saving grace is the guys in Lugano, who are our lenders of last resort to the tune of $114 billion.

Move faster. Slow down. It’s your duty to herald a better future. It’s your obligation to get that Pacha table, because we can’t forget about the Now. Hold a higher belief. Lose it. Find it again because it's better than the alternative. Or maybe not, because they’re saying the Machine is divine and should be treated as much. You think that’s sacrilege. Either way they’ll call it psychosis.

We’re waltzing at the end of history. Your invitation is on the sign up page. You have to take it. Because if you don’t dance, someone else will dance and you’ll be all alone at the Big Ball which is starting to feel more like a Silent Disco anyways.

That’s what they say. Maybe it’s time to put in my Airpods.