Fuck it man. Just put on some Grateful Dead. Put on some Aretha. Print some kind of zine. Paint a sign. Start a band. Write a manifesto. Bootleg a t-shirt. Hand out stickers. Throw a party. Keep it weird.
We're addicted to genius. We obsess over the wunderkind solving quantum equations at nine, the dropout who IPOs from his garage, the hedge fund oracle who posts a return so obscene it looks like a typo. Brilliance is seductive. But it's also unreliable. And more often
Popularity kills good ideas. The moment a thought gets traction, it gets watered down. The rough edges get sanded off. The disclaimers creep in. The speculative becomes declarative, the subversive becomes palatable, and the brilliant becomes content. Consensus isn't a signal of truth. It's usually just
On the morning of June 6th, 1944, Hitler was sound asleep. The Allies were landing. Tens of thousands of soldiers were pouring onto the beaches. The tide was turning, the war accelerating toward its violent, inevitable end. And the man leading the Reich was in bed, untouched. His generals knew
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