Here’s the thing — if COPA isn’t a partnership, if it’s not tethered to BTC Core like a drunk clinging to a lamppost, then what the hell is it? Some shadowy non-organisation, a thing that is and isn’t, sitting there with its pockets stuffed full of millions of dollars? Tell me, who’s funding this circus? Who’s paying the clowns? But more than that, why are all the developers still huddled together like they’re in on the same joke? You don’t see independent actors all wearing the same tie unless someone’s pulling the strings. They can talk all they want about decentralisation, about freedom and neutrality, but tens of millions don’t just drop out of the sky without someone expecting something in return.

BTC doesn’t have the magic trick anymore. The days of wild, thousand-fold jumps are long gone, and even the dream of a tenfold increase now feels laughable. When it was hovering at $50 or $100, the potential for those massive leaps was there — as we’ve all seen. But to sit there and argue that it will capture $100 million per coin or somehow gobble up 99% of the world’s GDP? That’s not optimism; that’s outright delusion. BSV isn’t going anywhere. It won’t be forced aside. The upside is real, tangible, and grounded in what Bitcoin was always meant to be. BTC, though? It’s painted itself into a corner. The halving cycle is a noose tightening around its neck. With every halving, it moves further from what Bitcoin was meant to be. The illusion of scarcity gives way to the reality of inflation — doubling, tripling, fragmenting into a system that strays ever further from the 21 million cap, chasing shadows into billions.

The only thing I give a damn about right now, in the short term, is making sure that Bitcoin scales. That’s it. Reputation? Don’t care. What you think about me? Less than nothing. You can call me a liar, a fraud, a madman—throw whatever rocks you’ve got.

It doesn’t matter.

It will never stop what I'm building. There is one thing, though. One thing I do care about, and it’s not something you, or anyone else, can touch. My family. That’s sacred. It has nothing to do with this fight, nothing to do with what’s on trial or in the headlines. Beyond that, every ounce of my energy, every waking thought, is fixed on a single goal: delivering a global money system. Something real. Something that works. Something that isn’t built on lies and excuses.

The only real trick COPA ever had — and it was a sad one, really, like a magician with a hole in his top hat — was their claim to authority. BTC Core, the self-appointed priests of their little church, standing at the pulpit and declaring, “This is Bitcoin, and no one else can be.” It wasn’t power, not in the real sense. It was posturing, a shadow of control propped up by the faith of a crowd too scared to ask questions. But now? In their endless legal dance, their desperate clinging to relevance, they’ve gutted their own position. They’ve stood in courtrooms and signed their names to arguments that, in essence, say they aren’t what they claim to be. They’ve undone themselves, unstitched the narrative they’ve been selling.

By trying to bury me, they’ve dug up the truth: they aren’t the keepers of the flame. They aren’t the gatekeepers of Bitcoin. They can’t be, not anymore.

BTC Core loves to throw around this idea that "Satoshi doesn’t matter." They’ll say it with a straight face, like it’s some profound truth, but let’s be real—they only push that line because deep down, they know he does matter. The entire system was built on Satoshi’s design, a design meant to be set in stone, not constantly poked, prodded, and hacked apart by a bunch of developers with delusions of grandeur.

The protocol wasn’t theirs to change. It wasn’t anyone’s.

Satoshi made that clear. And Gavin?
They kicked him out, exiled him like he was some kind of heretic.

Gavin Andresen was the guy Satoshi himself handed the reins to, the guy trusted to shepherd the system forward without wrecking the foundations. But BTC Core decided they knew better. They didn’t like the way Gavin stayed true to Satoshi’s principles. They didn’t want someone around who’d remind them that the protocol wasn’t theirs to tinker with.

So they shoved him aside, seized control, and turned Bitcoin into their playground.

Alright, let’s cut the crap and lay it out straight, the way Satoshi meant it. Bitcoin was supposed to be simple, clean, and brilliant—digital cash for the internet, no middlemen, no gatekeepers, no need to beg some banker or tech overlord to move your money. It’s a system where transactions are direct and final, like slapping a ten-dollar bill into someone’s hand and walking away. No take-backs, no rewrites, no “policy adjustments.” Here’s the core: you’ve got transactions bundled into blocks, each one chained to the last with proof-of-work. This isn’t some abstract academic concept—it’s real skin in the game. Miners put in computational effort, honest effort, to solve a cryptographic puzzle. That’s proof-of-work. And when they succeed, they add a new block to the chain, locking in those transactions permanently. Finality, baby. Satoshi’s whitepaper laid it down plain: once a block is accepted, that’s the truth. No do-overs. No replacing a transaction with a higher fee.

If you want to understand the power of decentralisation, forget what BTC Core tells you. It isn’t about anarchy. It isn’t about tearing down every structure, every rule, and replacing it with chaos. That’s their fantasy—a world without boundaries, without accountability, where anything goes and everything falls apart. True decentralisation isn’t about the absence of order. It’s about community. It’s about groups of people coming together, sharing ideas, competing, and building something greater than the sum of their parts. Not a lawless wasteland, but a system where the rules are fair, where the game is worth playing—not because survival depends on it, but because we all want to make something better.

That’s the difference they don’t understand. Decentralisation isn’t a free-for-all. It’s a framework for growth, for progress, for innovation. It’s about competition—not competition that destroys, but competition that inspires. It’s about creating systems where people rise by merit, where they succeed because they contribute, because they build, because they make the game itself better for everyone. The rules aren’t there to crush you; they’re there to level the playing field, to make sure the game stays worth playing.

Right now, the cypherpunks and their ilk are coming for me. They’ll scream, they’ll threaten, they’ll try to bury me under their accusations and their noise. But as they do this, we’re already building—quietly, steadily, on foundations they don’t even see. The things we’ve started are bigger than me now, bigger than any single person. They’ll continue to grow, to expand, to evolve, even as the world focuses on tearing me down. And that’s the beauty of it. This isn’t about a figurehead. It’s about an idea.

I’ll keep inventing. That’s who I am; that’s what I do. But the real power of decentralisation is when you—yes, you—pick up the mantle. When you take the tools, the ideas, the systems we’ve laid down, and you run with them. When you stop waiting for someone to lead and start becoming part of the game yourself. That’s when it works. That’s when decentralisation stops being a concept and becomes a reality.

The point isn’t for me to stand at the centre. It’s for all of us to play. To build. To create. To compete in a way that drives us forward, not because we’re forced to, but because we choose to. That’s the power they don’t understand. That’s the system they fear. And that’s the future we’re creating—together. As they’ve attacked me, as they’ve poured their energy into tearing me down, they’ve missed the bigger picture. While they obsess over me, others have been building, quietly, steadily, completing projects and launching ideas into the world. The irony is that their focus on me has only given others the freedom to act, to create, to move forward without the weight of their scrutiny. This was never about me. Recognition has never been the goal. I’m here to achieve an end—to reach a destination that’s far bigger than any individual.

The goal has always been the same: distributed money. Money that flows freely across borders, money that cannot be stopped or silenced. But not for million-dollar transfers to drug dealers or criminal enterprises. That’s not where the real value lies. The true power of this system is in the everyday transactions—the $5 purchase, the $10 payment, the $100 transfer to family across the world, the $1,000 payment to a small business. That’s where the heart of this lies, in the small amounts that touch lives and connect people. That’s what makes a difference. That’s where the real revolution is happening.

And that’s what we’re achieving. While they fixate on me, this vision is becoming reality. The system is growing, evolving, proving itself in the real world. It’s not about grand gestures or hollow promises; it’s about practical, tangible results. And as they continue to focus on me, the work goes on. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t slow. It moves forward, driven by the people who see the vision, who understand what’s at stake, who know that the value of money isn’t in speculation but in use.

This is what they’ll never understand. It’s not about one person. It’s about a system that empowers everyone, that works not in grand, dramatic gestures but in the quiet, consistent flow of everyday life. And as they chase shadows, the work continues. The goal is being realised. The system is here, and it’s here to stay.

They don’t get it. They think I’m here to burn it all down, to build something twisted—assassination markets, drug markets, the kind of filth that feeds on the dark corners of the human soul. That’s what Roger and BTC Core has turned into, and the courts, well, they’re trying to paint me with the same brush, trying to censor me, trying to silence me. But they’re wrong. They don’t see the truth, or more likely and just maybe they just don’t want to.

What I’m fighting for isn’t chaos. It isn’t anarchy. It’s not a playground for criminals to run amok. No, what I want—what I’ve always wanted—is a system that’s fair. A system that’s real. One where people rise on their merit, on what they can do, on what they can bring to the table. Not a rigged game where the rules are written to keep people in their place, to protect the ones who were born with everything and keep the rest of us scrambling for scraps.

The system I’m arguing for is one where the butcher, the baker, and the brewer—the people Adam Smith talked about—aren’t chained to their lot in life, forced to stay small because the deck is stacked against them. It’s a system where effort and skill matter, where you can build something, make something, be something, without the weight of the world’s injustice crushing you before you start. It’s not about taking from others, not about some utopian fantasy where everyone ends up equal. It’s about giving everyone a shot, a fair chance to stand or fall on their own.

But the ones in power? They don’t like that. They don’t want fair. They want control. They’ll twist the narrative, say I’m building a system for criminals because they know that’s what scares people. They’ll point fingers and scream about the dangers of a truly free system because it’s easier than admitting they’re the ones propping up a broken one. They don’t want change. They want their world, their rules, their power. And they’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.

But here’s the thing: this isn’t about tearing down just to tear down. It’s about building something better. Not drug markets. Not assassination markets. Not crime. It’s about creating a system where the strata of society don’t lock you in, where the hierarchy isn’t rigged, and where the measure of a person isn’t their birthright but their ability. It’s about fairness. Equity. A chance to rise, to build, to leave something behind.

So let them try to silence me. Let them come with their accusations and their noise. Because what I’m building isn’t a threat to the world—it’s a threat to their world. And they know it. That’s why they fight. That’s why they fear. Because for the first time, the game isn’t theirs alone. And they hate that. If you can change the rules, then it’s the ones in power who will decide when and how those rules get rewritten. And don’t think for a second they’ll rewrite them for your benefit. They’ll do it to protect themselves, to keep their grip on the board, to make sure the game stays theirs to win. Like a rigged game of Monopoly where the rules shift halfway through, the house always wins. The ones who’ve already stacked up their properties, their hotels, their endless pile of cash? They’ll make damn sure the new rules favour them, locking in their advantage and crushing anyone who starts to rise.

That’s the trap. The illusion. The lie they sell you—that the system is fair, that the game is honest. But if the rules can bend, then fairness doesn’t exist. It’s a mirage, a pretty story told to keep you playing. And the moment you start to get ahead, the moment you threaten their dominance, they’ll flip the board. Suddenly, the rules don’t mean what they did before. What worked for them, what let them climb to the top, won’t work for you. They’ll make sure of it.

This is what happens when power is concentrated. When control over the rules—over the system itself—is held by a few. They don’t just play the game. They own it. And they’ll do whatever it takes to make sure no one else does. That’s why you can’t trust a system where the rules can change. A truly fair system doesn’t bend to the will of those in power. It stands firm, unyielding, giving everyone the same shot, no matter who they are or where they start.

Because if the rules can change, it’s not a game. It’s a farce. And the winners are decided before the pieces even hit the board.

The problem, as I see it, isn't just about politics; it's about forgetting who we are. Both the left and the right have sold their souls to incomplete visions of society. On the left, they’ve sacrificed the human connection, that neighbourly handshake, that shared meal after church, that local softball league. They’ve given it all away to the state. The state doesn’t smile back at you, doesn’t cheer when your kid hits a home run. The state is faceless, nameless bureaucracy. In their quest for equity, they’ve crushed the essence of what binds us together—our communities.

And then there’s the right. They wave the flag of individualism so hard, they forget that individuals don’t thrive alone. They’ve abandoned community too, but not to the state—no, they’ve left it in the dust in favour of some hyperactive dream of self-sufficiency. You see it in the empty church pews and the shuttered veterans' halls. They’ll preach about personal responsibility, but where’s the responsibility to one another?

Both sides are wrong. The left leans too hard on the state to solve everything, and in doing so, they rip away the foundation of community groups. The right? They’ve become so enamoured with their vision of the lone wolf they don’t see the pack crumbling behind them.

This isn’t new. In Bowling Alone, Robert Putnam warned us about the decay of civic life. He saw it—the bowling leagues disappearing, the Elks Clubs dwindling. When we stop showing up for one another, we stop growing as individuals. Real individualism, the kind that flourishes, only happens in the soil of community. It’s the balance of belonging and freedom. It’s being you while standing shoulder to shoulder with others.

What neither side sees is this: we’re not choosing between community and individualism. We’re choosing how to make them thrive together. The state can’t give you a neighbour. It can’t give you a friend. And your echo chamber of individualism won’t give you a helping hand when you’re struggling. It’s time to rebuild. To reclaim the bowling leagues, the bake sales, the places where we meet, argue, and laugh.

Without those, we’re lost. Not because we’re too individualistic or not individualistic enough, but because we’ve forgotten that community isn’t the enemy—it’s the answer. If I can see it—me, an autistic man who has spent a lifetime studying people from the outside in—then what excuse do you have? To fail to grasp the necessity of community, you must be blinded by something. Maybe it’s greed, the kind that’s disguised as ambition, the kind the right wraps in rhetoric about free markets and success. Wealth becomes the measure of everything, the final arbiter of value, and the people left behind? They’re just collateral damage. You call it progress, but you’re bulldozing the very foundation on which your so-called individualism stands. Without community, your riches are just empty trinkets in an echo chamber.

And the left? You’re not getting off easy here either. In your rush to champion the downtrodden, you’ve forgotten what they actually need. It’s not policies and platitudes, not endless government programmes that sterilise the human connection. Your social justice warrior mantra might be loud, but it’s deaf to the reality that the state doesn’t care. It can’t care. It doesn’t build relationships, it doesn’t nurture trust. You’re so busy patting yourselves on the back for fighting the good fight that you’ve thrown away the bathwater, the baby, and the tub.

What both sides miss is that it’s not about numbers. It’s not about flexing who has more—more money, more programmes, more legislation. That’s just a dick-waving contest masquerading as progress. Real progress isn’t measured in numbers; it’s measured in lives touched, in hands held, in the quiet moments where someone knows they’re not alone. And that doesn’t come from the state. It doesn’t come from some abstract ideal of hyper-individualism either. It comes from us. From community. From people stepping up, not because they’re forced to, but because they choose to.

Here’s the truth: the state never helps. It manages, it manipulates, it perpetuates its own existence. The only ones who help are us. Communities can lift each other up in ways the state never will. But if we hand over our rights, if we abdicate our responsibility, if we say, “Let the government handle it,” we’re not just losing control—we’re losing our humanity.

And don’t kid yourself: when you force others to comply, to give, to bend, you’re not building a better world. You’re building a cage. And the bars you erect for others? They’ll close around you too.

True freedom, true growth, true individualism—they only happen in a community that values choice, trust, and mutual care. Lose that, and you lose everything.

The man in the suit smiles, but it’s not for you. It’s never for you. His grin stretches thin like the promise of freedom sold by snake oil merchants. "You will own nothing," he says, his voice slick as grease. And you nod along, not because you agree, but because the world has made it hard to dissent. Hard to even think. BTC—they call it Bitcoin, but it’s a ghost of what it was meant to be. A digital ledger turned into a gilded cage. You won’t hold it. You won’t feel its weight in your wallet, the subtle hum of independence. No, it will rest safely on the servers of third parties, polished and guarded like jewels in the king's vault, out of reach for peasants like you. Saylor’s dream is your nightmare—credits on a screen, access granted not by your key but by the nod of a corporate guard.

BTC Core stands as the crooked embodiment of betrayal—a clumsy caricature of what Bitcoin was meant to be. Satoshi Nakamoto didn’t hand the world a tool for centralised elites to choke. He gave us a system that promised freedom, one grounded in immutability, scalability, and decentralisation. And here comes BTC Core, with its tech priests and gatekeepers, dismantling those promises brick by brick, pissing on the foundation while pretending it’s an improvement. First, immutability. “Set in stone,” Satoshi wrote. Not a polite suggestion, not a flexible roadmap, but a bedrock principle. Yet BTC Core treats the protocol like it’s some playground experiment, carving it up and tinkering like mad scientists drunk on their own arrogance. Consensus? Broad consensus? They spit on it. They’ve swapped out Bitcoin’s backbone for something malleable, fragile, a Frankenstein monster subject to the whims of a select few devs playing gods. Each fork, each so-called improvement, is a hammer blow to trust. If users can’t rely on the system being what it claims to be, what the hell is left? Faith in a handful of coders? Satoshi designed Bitcoin to eliminate trust, not to shift it from one centralised power to another.

The vision of #Bitcoin was never to cater to a select few lounging in the penthouses of financial privilege.

It was built for the billions, not the billionaires.

This statement is not merely a slogan but a clarion call to the masses, an assertion of the individual’s rightful power over their own financial existence. Beneath the layers of misinformation propagated by those who fear losing their monopolies lies the truth: a system designed to scale infinitely, capable of handling the smallest micropayments and the grandest commercial transactions alike, with efficiency unmatched by any fiat-based competitor. This creation stands as a testament to the power of technology guided by rational self-interest. It provides a platform where value can flow without interference, bypassing the gatekeepers who have long siphoned wealth under the guise of 'security' and 'stability.' Bitcoin's original protocol, like the industrial revolution itself, empowers those who produce, trade, and innovate, offering a framework for growth that recognises the individual as the fundamental unit of economic progress.

The greatest discovery of Columbus wasn’t gold, spices, or the imagined fountains of youth. It was something far more profound, far more simple, and yet infinitely more powerful: rubber.

Yes, rubber.

Not a chest of treasures but the black gold of progress. It wasn’t merely a material; it was a tool of transformation, the very sinew of industry.

Without it, the Roman Empire, the great architects of civilisation, could never transition from their stone gears to the mechanisms of steel.

Without it, the early Chinese, masters of gunpowder and paper, were doomed to stagnate, lacking the pliability that bridges invention to mass production.

Rubber isn’t just a commodity—it’s the lifeblood of motion, of machines, of endless potential. The Romans had the genius to build aqueducts, roads, and war machines, but they lacked the ability to cushion their carts or power their devices. Their wheels shattered on cobblestones because they were brittle. Their gears ground down because they couldn’t absorb the friction of their own brilliance.

Rubber could have changed that. It is flexibility incarnate—resilience made tangible. It is the bridge between imagination and reality.

And the Chinese, those early masters of invention, stagnated under the weight of rigid progress. They had paper but no typewriters, gunpowder but no reliable wheels for transport.

They were trapped, like the Romans, in a world where the inflexible crushed innovation under its unyielding weight. Rubber is not just a thing—it is the principle of adaptation. It is reason made elastic.

The Americas, with their rubber trees, held the secret. But the truth, like all truths, waited for the right time, the right minds. Columbus stumbled upon it like a drunk discovering fire, unaware that what he found wasn’t a resource but a revolution. It is the quiet material that whispers progress through the spokes of bicycles, the belts of engines, the boots of armies, and the seals of submarines. It gave the industrial age its breath, its movement, its heartbeat.

Rubber isn’t just the answer to why the ancients stagnated—it is the embodiment of why progress is born not from force but from flexibility, not from conquest but from discovery. It is the lesson of the Americas, the legacy of the world’s second wind. It’s rubber, and it’s everything. Without rubber, the industrial revolution would have been an impossible dream, a spark that never found its fuel.

Engines, motors, and the entire framework of modern industry depend on this singular material, not just as a convenience but as a necessity.

Rubber is not merely a component; it is the enabler. It is the unsung hero of motion, sealing the gaps, absorbing the shocks, and carrying the weight of human ambition.

Consider the steam engine, the early marvel that powered the industrial revolution. Without rubber, it would have been a clanking monstrosity of inefficiency. Steam engines rely on gaskets and seals to contain high-pressure steam, preventing leaks and maintaining efficiency. These seals, pliable and heat-resistant, cannot function without rubber or an equivalent. Without rubber, the engine is no longer a marvel of precision but a sputtering mess, incapable of sustained operation.

Now think of the combustion engine, the next leap in industrial evolution.

Fuel must flow, and air must breathe into the heart of the engine, but how does it get there?

Rubberized tubes.

Flexible, durable, and airtight, they direct fuel and air precisely where they need to go. Without them, the engine chokes, splutters, and dies. Rubber belts transfer power, insulating vibration and ensuring smooth operation. It is the silent workhorse of mechanical innovation, without which the roaring beast of industry falls silent.

And then, there are tires—the unsung champions of movement. The industrial age brought the train and the automobile, but without rubber tires, the car and trucks would never have conquered the world.

Tires absorb shock, provide traction, and enable speed. Even now, the tires of 747s, the giants of the sky, are made from natural rubber because synthetic substitutes cannot match its strength, elasticity, and resilience. Without rubber, there are no cars, no planes, no global economy. The world grinds to a halt.

Rubber didn’t just make industrial machinery more efficient; it made it possible. The Romans could carve their gears, the Chinese could ignite their gunpowder, but without rubber, they couldn’t build machines that could flex, move, and sustain. Rubber brought resilience to rigidity, mobility to invention. It turned the theories of steam and combustion into practical, unstoppable forces.

The industrial revolution wasn’t just about steel and steam; it was about sealing the gaps in the machinery of progress. It was about making engines that didn’t leak, wheels that didn’t splinter, and machines that didn’t grind themselves into oblivion. Rubber didn’t just aid the industrial revolution—it was its lifeblood. It remains so today, the unsung cornerstone of every motor, every wheel, every engine that powers our world. Without rubber, there is no modernity. There is no revolution. There is only stillness.

The reality is simple—no one’s going to chase down small amounts of Bitcoin under $50,000.

The costs alone—court fees, legal filings, recovery processes—make it practically impossible. Even governments, with all their resources, won’t waste time on peanuts. But this doesn’t mean the system fails; it means it works where it matters.

Recovery isn’t for every minor loss. It’s for the cases tied to something bigger—property, deeds, or major disputes where the stakes justify the effort. Imagine a house deed locked to a few satoshis. That’s where recovery makes sense. The number of coins might be small, but the value of the asset they represent isn’t. This system ensures that even though the cryptocurrency amount is minimal, its connection to something real and tangible keeps it worth pursuing.

White Rabbit's Journey to Wonderland

The White Rabbit was late. Late, as always, because he’d been trying to confirm his BTC transaction for hours. He clutched his phone, staring at the spinning circle of doom on his screen, muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!” Late for what? No one really knew. Perhaps for his coffee, now cold, purchased with BTC at a trendy café where they charged him more in fees than the drink’s actual cost.

As he bolted down the blockchain rabbit hole, he stumbled into Wonderland—a strange, decentralised place that claimed to be free of kings and queens, but where a cabal of shadowy developers seemed to pull the strings. “Welcome!” said the Cheshire Miner, his grin flashing like a block reward. “You’re just in time to pay your exorbitant fees and contribute to our mining lottery!” The Queen of Nodes

The White Rabbit soon found himself in the court of the Queen of Nodes. She sat atop a pile of raspberry pi devices, declaring loudly, “Decentralisation or death!” The crowd of sycophantic followers cheered. “But what do you do, exactly?” asked the White Rabbit.

“We validate! We don’t mine, we don’t process transactions, but we validate!” the Queen bellowed, as if repeating the word would add meaning.

Confused, the Rabbit asked, “So, you don’t help confirm my transaction? Why did I pay a fee?”

The Queen cackled, “Fee? Oh, dear Rabbit, the fee is merely the price of admission to our exclusive decentralised utopia. It has nothing to do with your transaction!”

The sheer absurdity of the COPA case lies in its deliberate erasure of the very writings that form the foundation of Bitcoin—those authored by Satoshi Nakamoto. Imagine a case purportedly centred on the identity of Satoshi, yet it excludes any reference to the creator's own words, works, or publications prior to 2014.

This is not merely a procedural oversight; it is an intentional strategy to suppress the core ideas that define both the identity and philosophy behind Bitcoin. Think about the implications.

The writings of Satoshi Nakamoto are pivotal, not just for understanding Bitcoin’s technical architecture but for grasping the conceptual framework that Satoshi sought to establish. By barring these writings, the court effectively stripped the case of its most relevant evidence.

How can one litigate over the identity of Satoshi while simultaneously silencing Satoshi’s voice?

The irony here is profound—this isn’t a pursuit of truth but an exercise in obfuscation.

Cash operates as a fundamentally different form of money, not just in its physical manifestation but in the unique economic role it plays. Unlike digital balances or large monetary instruments like bonds or credit lines, cash is primarily limited in its efficacy by its denomination in small, transferable amounts. The distinguishing feature of cash lies in its utility for microtransactions and informal exchanges.

Large-value transactions, such as real estate purchases or institutional investments, are typically settled through bank transfers or complex financial instruments.

Cash, on the other hand, thrives in contexts where agility, privacy, and immediate settlement are paramount. Its primary constraint is not the ceiling of large-value storage but its practicality in facilitating small, face-to-face exchanges.

When I invoked the word defenestrated in relation to the BTC Core developers, it was not an idle metaphor. It was a declaration rooted in moral clarity and the unyielding demand for justice.

Let there be no equivocation: those who fraudulently claim to represent Bitcoin, who distort its purpose and desecrate its principles, have forfeited their right to exist within the domain of its architecture. If BTC Core persists in masquerading as the true inheritor of Bitcoin while actively dismantling its foundation, they will find no shelter in the platform they have usurped. A fraud has no right to perpetuate its existence under the guise of legitimacy.

Let me get this straight, system passing off as bitcoin isn't bitcoin.

The moment a system proclaims itself as something it is not, it becomes an impostor, a parasite clinging to the framework of a superior idea while simultaneously poisoning it. My statement was a warning—not of physical violence, for that is the tool of the impotent—but of intellectual eviction. If BTC Core continues to misrepresent Bitcoin’s immutable essence, it will face expulsion, stripped of its deceitful mantle, and cast out of the very ecosystem it claims to uphold.

Do not follow me; never follow me.

I am but a man, and like all men, I am inherently flawed.

To place your trust in my identity is to anchor your aspirations to the imperfections of a single individual.

I am a mere vessel for the ideas I espouse, a conduit through which the principles of Bitcoin have been articulated.

It is the ideas that hold the true power, not the man who speaks them Instead, I implore you to follow the idea—the immutable concept that Satoshi Nakamoto represents. Embrace the philosophy of decentralization, the relentless pursuit of individual freedom, and the unwavering commitment to self-sovereignty that underpins Bitcoin.

These are the ideals that have the potential to transform lives, to empower individuals to reclaim their financial autonomy and engage in commerce on their own terms.

When the identity of Satoshi Nakamoto is revealed, the implications for privacy and autonomy become profound.

The moment Satoshi is known as an individual, the veil of anonymity is lifted, and the man becomes subject to scrutiny, tracking, and constant observation.

This transformation signifies that everything associated with Satoshi can be monitored, traced, and linked back to his actions, eroding the privacy that the original vision of Bitcoin sought to protect. Bitcoin is not truly anonymous; it operates within a framework of privacy that demands vigilance and diligence.

Privacy is not merely the absence of visibility; it requires a proactive approach to safeguarding information and isolating what is known. Once an address is publicly linked to a person, the potential for that information to be followed and interpreted becomes a reality.

The transactional nature of Bitcoin allows for tracing, but it also permits the maintenance of privacy as long as the identity behind transactions remains concealed.

It is necessary for me to pursue the appeal, yet I want to clarify that this action bears no relevance to the future of Bitcoin itself. The appeal is a separate endeavor, one that I must undertake in order to address specific issues at hand. It is not a reflection of the scalability or functionality of Bitcoin; those discussions should stand apart from the personal or legal matters I am currently navigating. What I find increasingly frustrating is the ongoing obsession with Satoshi's identity among many in the community. The question of who Satoshi is should never have been a focal point, as the identity of a person is always dwarfed by the significance of the idea he represented. The true value of Bitcoin lies not in the man behind the curtain but in the foundational principles that he articulated, principles that champion individual freedom and decentralization.