They say “crypto” and mean casinos. Neon pit bosses in Discord hoodies, chips denominated in mythology, exits signed in Greek letters. Then they point at cash that actually works and hiss like a cat at a bath. Of course they do. If a street puts up honest lighting, the pickpockets have a difficult quarter.

Real electronic cash is dull in the best way—like working plumbing. It moves value from A to B at human scale, with receipts, for pocket change. It lets a café accept a three-cent tip without consulting a priesthood or mortgaging its soul to a “partner” exchange. It lets a coder in Cebu sell a one-line API call, a reporter sell a single paragraph, a sensor sell temperature once a minute, and a violinist sell eight bars instead of signing away a catalog. And it does it peer-to-peer. No velvet rope, no marketing budget, no sacrifice to the altar of volatility. That’s why the industry that markets itself as “the future of money” has spent a decade trying to strangle the only monetary system that doesn’t need it.

The heresy: cash without a keeper

The mortal sin isn’t block size or some baroque preference for opcodes. The real offense is that a big-block, low-fee Bitcoin (yes, BSV) makes middlemen optional. With zero-conf secured by miner commitments and receipts, with headers-only verification the way it was always meant to be, a payment can be final, practical and legally provable in seconds. Fees in fractions of a cent make micro-economics real, not a TED talk. Suddenly the exchange isn’t a cathedral; it’s a convenience store—useful, but hardly holy.

If cash works at the edge, the hub loses its tax. That is the whole melodrama. What vanishes when cash works

Volatility farming. When a plumber wants to get paid, he wants dollars at close of day, not a roller coaster with a logo. With on-chain token rails (stablecoins whose ledgers sit right beside BSV UTXOs), his wallet can quote a price in dollars, take payment in BSV, and flip atomically into the stable token in the same transaction. No “deposit,” no “withdrawal,” no waiting room where the house borrows your wallet and returns it sticky. The casino’s margin evaporates.

Custodial choke points. If the wallet speaks simple SPV, it connects directly to miners and to token issuers, not to a moat. Liquidity looks like a competitive marketplace of quote providers, not a single vault with a marketing department. Prices become a utility—posted, haggled, cleared—without anyone holding your funds “for your convenience.”

The sacred toll of bridges and layers. The Rube Goldberg edifice—wrapping, bridging, staking, rehypothecating—exists to compensate for a base layer that refuses to carry the traffic. A chain that scales on-chain makes the contraptions embarrassing. When a delivery truck can drive on the road, you don’t sell it a hot-air balloon.

Rent disguised as innovation. Governance tokens, liquidity mining, yield alchemy: all walled gardens demanding tribute. Cash that flows peer-to-peer without ritual burns that garden to the fence posts. What remains is service priced like a service, not a tithe to sustain the pageantry.

Right now I find myself in the position of Rourke, and at times I feel closer to Dagny. I continue to act, to build, to create, and to give away ideas, value, and entire frameworks of thought. I do it out of the desire to see this survive, to see something worth saving endure in the face of indifference and decay. But there is a limit to such sacrifice, and that is the part that cannot be ignored. It cannot continue indefinitely, because no individual, no matter how committed or driven, can bear the weight of an entire structure forever. At some point, it demands that others not only recognise the effort but also take it up, transform recognition into action, and bear their own share of the responsibility. Without that, it all collapses under the same inertia that I have been fighting against.

The reality of this is not complicated—it is brutally simple. One day the stream of work, of innovation, of constant giving, will come to an end if it continues to fall into the void of passive consumption. The decision is not mine alone to make; it belongs to those who would inherit what is being built and either choose to cultivate it or let it wither. That moment, when the giving ceases, will mark a final judgment: not of me, but of the collective failure to act.

This is not what I want. I have never sought that kind of ending. My intention has always been to see the structure carried forward, to see others step into the role of creators, producers, and defenders of value. Yet if you read the book, if you understand the trajectory it presents, you will already know the outcome when no one rises to the challenge. The book does not veil its message—the world grinds to a halt when those who carry it on their shoulders stop.

I do not want that prophecy to be fulfilled. I want to prove it wrong, to show that there are still enough willing to stand, to take on the burden of creation, to act instead of waiting for someone else to act. I want to demonstrate that the outcome need not be collapse, that it is possible to change the script and to defy the expectation of failure. But that cannot be proven alone. It requires others to recognise the cost of endless giving and to understand that it cannot be sustained by one person’s sacrifice indefinitely.

The choice is open before you. You can continue to stand idle, hoping that someone else carries it, or you can recognise the urgency and act. If you have read the book, you already know the warning. Let me prove it wrong—not by myself, but with you stepping forward, not in words alone, but in deeds. I’ve created an engine, not of steel and pistons, but of thought, of systems, of something that stands in the shape of what John Galt represented. But here lies the distinction—Galt turned his back on the world and vanished, starting anew in exile. He saw withdrawal as the only path left, a retreat that declared the world unworthy of the gifts it squandered. I cannot accept that conclusion.

Where Galt abandoned, I remain. Where he chose to step aside and let collapse prove his point, I believe there are still people, still opportunities, still moments where choice matters. The field has not yet gone barren, the soil is not yet exhausted, and there are minds capable of rising to the challenge if they will only grasp that their time is now. That is where I part from Rand—not in recognising the decay, but in refusing to concede that escape is the only solution.

The temptation to walk away is strong. It would be easy to justify. But what does that achieve? It proves only the inevitability of loss, the hopelessness of resistance, the surrender of every possibility to those who never created, never built, and never understood the cost. That is not the conclusion I seek. I want to stand against it and demonstrate that the engine of creation does not have to vanish into secrecy, that it can remain in the open world and still prevail.

So I say this clearly: running away is not the answer. Collapse is not the destiny we must accept. The future is not set in stone. The opportunity remains for others to step forward, to act, to prove that the world is not incapable of sustaining creation, of recognising value, of lifting the burden alongside me.

Core Vocabulary of Error and Delusion

The corruption of Bitcoin has produced its own dictionary—an absurd lexicon of slogans, falsehoods, and self-congratulatory jargon. It is only fitting to catalogue these in the spirit of Johnson’s sardonic dictionary, exposing them not as serious definitions but as parodies of thought. What follows is the true vocabulary of BTC Core and its acolytes: a language of distortion dressed up as wisdom. Full Node
A magical talisman worshipped by hobbyists. Allegedly secures the network by sitting in a basement rechecking blocks, as though validation without economic cost carried weight. In truth: a placebo with a JSON-RPC interface.

Perhaps no single error has been more corrosive to the proper understanding of #Bitcoin than the repeated claim that control of a private key is ownership.

This distortion, propagated by those who wish to present Bitcoin as an extralegal system, collapses centuries of legal development into a crude equivalence between possession and title.

To correct this, one must be precise: possession is not ownership, control is not title, and the law—not cryptographic artefacts—defines who owns property. The distinction is clear if we look to cash. Physical cash confers a degree of possession that is immediate and strong: the person holding a banknote can spend it freely, and unless the note is stolen or otherwise unlawfully obtained, that possession aligns with lawful ownership. Yet even here, possession and ownership are not identical. A thief holding stolen notes possesses them but does not own them. The law recognises the rightful owner and provides remedies to reclaim what has been taken. Cash demonstrates that possession may give practical control, but it does not extinguish legal rights.

IP-to-IP Negotiated Notes: An ECDH-Derived, Multi-Transfer Wallet Protocol for Private, Settled Digital-Cash Payments

🧵 Quick + nasty thread. I’ve thrown together a fast write-up on designing an IP-to-IP wallet workflow in Bitcoin: what it is, how it works, why it matters, and what it really means. It’s not proofed, not polished, not reviewed. The image is terrible. Put up with it. There’s enough here for someone to build.

open.substack.com/pub/singulargr… 1/ Premise
A payment isn’t one big transaction. It’s a set of small, standard on-chain transactions (“notes”). Each note pays a bounded amount to a unique address only the recipient can spend. Either side can broadcast any subset; confirmation depth defines finality per note. #Bitcoin #Wallets

The reason things are set in stone is simple: if they are not, then cliques form, factions gather, and the system bends to the will of whoever can shout the loudest or scheme the best.

Call it democracy, call it consensus, call it whatever polite name you like—it becomes rule by gangs. The promise of something new, something free of permission, collapses into the same tired game of power.

A system that can be changed at will is not decentralized. It may have the appearance of distribution, but at its core there will always be a table where decisions are made, and there will always be those excluded from it.

The very possibility of alteration demands gatekeepers, and gatekeepers are the seed of control. You can pretend otherwise, but the result is inevitable: the minority crushed, the individual silenced, the faction enthroned.

If the rules are immutable, then no clique can rise above another. No boat of insiders can chart the waters differently for themselves while forcing everyone else to follow. People are free to build, to innovate, to use, to ignore. But they are not free to tamper with the bedrock. That is the only way to achieve what people mouth as “decentralization” without understanding it: not in endless votes, not in squabbling committees, but in rules that are beyond anyone’s reach.

Without that permanence, the promise of permissionlessness is a fraud. With it, the factions may rage, the cliques may complain, but they cannot impose.

Think about that. Gatekeepers are nothing more than trusted third parties in disguise. They sit in the middle, deciding who is allowed through and who is to be shut out, and in doing so they strangle the very thing they claim to defend. An innovator can play by the rules, but if those with power don’t like the outcome, the rules themselves will be shifted. Not by a revolution, not by tearing everything down, but by moving the goalposts an inch at a time. That is how control is exercised—quietly, surgically, without fanfare.

Introduce a tweak here, a new structure there. Call it progress, call it scalability, call it whatever word sounds palatable. But the substance is the same: once you give people the authority to change the protocol, you give them the authority to define who may and may not participate. The system ceases to be open. It ceases to be something anyone can build upon, to experiment with, to push against. It becomes conditional, shifting sand rather than bedrock.

And once that shift occurs, it no longer matters how wide the rhetoric of freedom is shouted. Everything is controlled. The factions sit at the centre, the gatekeepers hold the keys, and permission returns in full force, dressed as consensus, smiling as it closes the door.

I must be blunt: if micropayments are to deliver on their promise, they cannot be built atop Rube Goldberg contraptions like the Lightning Network. Lightning is marketed as Bitcoin’s saviour, but in truth it is a separate system — a shadow banking layer with all the same weaknesses that capitalism’s enemies adore.

LN requires trusted intermediaries (“watchtowers”), pooled liquidity, and channels that centralise into a handful of large custodians. It is, by design, hostile to the very idea of open, contestable markets. Lightning is not a “layer” in the capitalist sense; it’s an off-chain credit network. That means the discipline of the blockchain — the immutable, timestamped record that prevents fraud and guarantees settlement — is absent. You get promises to pay, not payments. And promises, when concentrated in a few well-capitalised hubs, are indistinguishable from the old banking model where access depends on favour, compliance, and scale.

Micropayment-Driven AI Models.

A System to Deliver Precision, Accountability, and Economic Feedback in Machine Intelligence...

The future of AI is not merely in scaling parameter counts, nor in fine-tuning LLMs with the doctrinaire fervour of today’s academic echo chambers. It is in the controlled burn of value exchange—where information becomes accountable, where every correction costs and earns, and where computation itself becomes a commodity traded at the granularity of milliseconds. Micropayments, long derided as economically unviable under legacy systems, become the foundation of AI governance and function in a world where digital cash can move at near-zero marginal cost.

Forget the current swamp of hallucinated citations and models regurgitating consensus sludge with the self-assuredness of a tenured bureaucrat. In a micropayment-driven model, accuracy has an incentive structure. Querying a model becomes auditable. Every insight carries a traceable cost and, crucially, a distributable reward.

Take corrective feedback: when an LLM asserts that hydrogen has six protons and a user corrects it to one, the system doesn't merely retrain. It logs, it hashes, and it pays—0.0002¢, perhaps, to the contributor. Insignificant per act, but at scale it forges a market for veracity. The model becomes not just smarter, but economically tied to its own truthfulness, curated by a distributed network of informed actors who are finally compensated for doing what social media stole from them: thinking.

Extend this further to querying and insight: a user asks for a summary—0.01¢. A deeper chain-of-thought breakdown—0.02¢. Each request logged immutably, each contributor credited. No more black box prompt engineering. The ledger doesn’t forget. AI becomes an economy, not just a tool.

But it’s not just epistemology that bends under the weight of value. Compute itself becomes scarce in a rational market. GPU access? Biddable by the second. A real-time auction of silicon attention, throttled by demand curves, not corporate allocations or opaque paywalls. No more subsidised hallucinations. No more bloated middlemen. You pay for heat and cycles, not the brand of the model's custodians.

What emerges is not utopia. It is discipline. An AI market where truth costs money, where misinformation loses market share, where feedback is not a social virtue signal but a revenue stream. Micropayments do not just lubricate—they enforce. They make AI honest, not because we told it to be, but because dishonesty is finally more expensive. You cannot implement a micropayment-driven AI system like the one described—at scale, with granularity, permanence, and auditability—on the Lightning Network, for the following structural and economic reasons:

1. No Global Ledger: No Record, No Accountability

The Lightning Network is designed to operate off-chain. That’s the pitch. But in a system where model feedback, query provenance, and user contributions must be permanently recorded to verify who corrected what, who prompted what, and who deserves micropayments or royalties—you need a global, immutable ledger.
Lightning deliberately avoids this. It routes payments peer-to-peer via ephemeral channels, with no persistent global state.
This means no attribution, no provenance, no audit trail—exactly what a micropayment-feedback AI economy demands.

Since 1950, the United States has engaged in numerous military interventions across the globe, often under the pretext of promoting democracy, ending dictatorship, or protecting global stability. Yet a sober review of these interventions reveals a stark truth: almost none have resulted in the successful replacement of a dictatorship with a stable, functioning democracy. Instead, what follows is usually chaos, authoritarian relapse, or long-term instability. The myth that American intervention brings freedom has been told far too often—repeated despite the overwhelming evidence of failure. Below is a comprehensive account of the major U.S. interventions since 1950, analysed by their objectives and actual outcomes.

The Korean War (1950–1953) was launched to repel North Korean invasion and halt the spread of communism. While South Korea eventually stabilised into a democracy, the war failed to resolve the status of the North, which remains one of the most repressive dictatorships on earth. The peninsula remains divided and volatile. The goal of a unified democratic Korea was never achieved. The result: failure.

The Vietnam War (1955–1975) aimed to prevent a communist takeover of South Vietnam. The U.S. spent two decades, deployed over half a million troops, and lost nearly 60,000 lives, only to withdraw in 1973. Two years later, Saigon fell. Vietnam was unified under a single-party communist regime. No democracy was established. Total failure.

The Bay of Pigs invasion (1961) was an attempt to overthrow Fidel Castro’s communist regime in Cuba. The operation collapsed within days. Rather than weaken Castro, the failure bolstered his legitimacy and led to decades of authoritarian rule. To this day, Cuba remains a one-party state. Again, a failure.

In 1965, the U.S. intervened in the Dominican Republic to prevent what it claimed was a communist takeover. The intervention resulted in the installation of a U.S.-friendly regime and ultimately led to elections, but only after military occupation and political manipulation. The democratic process was tainted from the outset. This was, at best, a coerced and compromised outcome—not a clean success.

During the 1960s through 1975, the U.S. waged covert wars in Cambodia and Laos alongside its main campaign in Vietnam. These operations devastated both nations and helped set the stage for the Khmer Rouge’s rise in Cambodia—a regime responsible for genocide. The destruction of political infrastructure left a vacuum that was filled with one of the most brutal dictatorships of the century. Failure on an epic scale.

The 1953 coup in Iran, orchestrated by the CIA, overthrew the democratically elected Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh and reinstated the Shah, a monarch with dictatorial powers. This act eliminated one of the Middle East’s few attempts at democratic governance. The Shah's regime collapsed in 1979, replaced by a theocratic authoritarian state. This was not just a failure—it was the deliberate destruction of democracy.

In Chile (1973), the U.S. supported a coup that removed President Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist. The result was a brutal military dictatorship under Augusto Pinochet that lasted nearly two decades. Human rights violations were rampant. Democracy was crushed, not fostered.

The invasion of Grenada (1983) is often cited as a success story. The U.S. removed a Marxist regime and helped restore a form of parliamentary governance. Yet this was a tiny island nation, entirely dependent on U.S. security and economic support. The outcome was tightly controlled and cannot be generalised to more complex theatres.

In Panama (1989), the U.S. invaded to remove dictator Manuel Noriega. Elections resumed afterward under heavy American oversight. Though some form of democratic structure was reinstated, it came with strings attached and under a cloud of legitimacy questions. A qualified success, but the bar is low. The Iraq War (2003–2011; 2014–present) was launched to topple Saddam Hussein and create a democratic ally in the Middle East. What followed was civil war, the rise of ISIS, and the collapse of basic governance. Elections exist on paper, but the state remains plagued by sectarian conflict and dysfunction. Democracy has not taken root. This was a catastrophic failure with consequences that still echo today.

In Afghanistan (2001–2021), the U.S. sought to eliminate the Taliban and build democratic institutions. After two decades of occupation and trillions of dollars spent, the Taliban returned to power within weeks of U.S. withdrawal. Any progress made dissolved instantly. No democracy remains. The effort was completely undone. Failure, total and unmitigated.

Libya (2011) saw U.S. and NATO forces help remove Muammar Gaddafi. What followed was not democracy but fragmentation, civil war, and multiple rival governments. The intervention created a power vacuum. The state disintegrated. Democracy never emerged. Failure.

Syria (2014–present) involves indirect U.S. involvement against ISIS and in opposition to the Assad regime. Despite vast expenditures and support for various rebel groups, Assad remains firmly in power. The humanitarian disaster continues. No regime change occurred. No democracy. Failure.

Even in so-called successes like Kosovo (1999), democracy is partial at best. The intervention stopped ethnic cleansing, and a UN-led transitional government helped guide democratic processes, but the region remains contested, politically fragile, and far from an uncontested success.

The only genuine examples of U.S. intervention leading to enduring democracy—Germany and Japan—occurred after World War II, under unique conditions: total war, unconditional surrender, and long-term U.S. occupation and restructuring. These are not post-1950 cases and cannot be reasonably compared to the later failures.

In summary: since 1950, the United States has intervened militarily across the globe, citing high-minded ideals of democracy and freedom. The actual record shows consistent failure to achieve these outcomes. In almost every case, the target nation either remained under authoritarian rule, collapsed into civil war, or emerged as a fragile and corrupt state. The U.S. breaks nations. It does not build them. It is not democracy they export—it is disorder, devastation, and delusion.

🧵 #BitcoinTopologyExposed – A long-form breakdown of my latest paper: “The Redundancy of Full Nodes in Bitcoin”



#Bitcoin #BTC #BSV #GraphTheory #ProofOfWork #CryptoRealityarxiv.org/abs/2506.14197 1️⃣ The Fantasy of Full Nodes Ends Here
This paper demonstrates, with formal network-theoretic proofs, that non-mining full nodes in both BTC and BSV are structurally and functionally irrelevant. They do not relay transactions, do not affect consensus, and do not matter.
#FullNodes #MythBusting #BitcoinNetwork

I am going to start operating on a fair and functional assumption: anyone who keeps parroting that I need to “market Bitcoin” more—who insists I should moonlight as a sales rep, an advertising exec, or a coin-hawking cheerleader—is either working for BTC Core and trolling, or they’re simply too brain-dead to take seriously.

There IS no third option. Between study, development, architecture, and system design, I don’t owe anyone a PowerPoint pitch or a Twitter slogan.

While you might not see what I’m doing, that doesn’t mean nothing’s happening. I’m testing systems, refining designs, extending the protocol as it was always meant to be—not changing it, mind you, but scaling it to support global commerce on a single coherent backbone. And no, I’m not going to tell you what I’m doing. That game’s been played. Every time I’ve explained things in the past, it’s been a gift to the vultures—more fuel for plagiarism, distortion, and theft.

So here it is, plain and final: my job isn’t to learn marketing. I’m not going to bend my skillset into some pseudo-PR role just to please people who wouldn’t know a protocol from a publicity stunt. Like the original engineers who built the Internet Protocol, I design systems. That’s what I do. And if your input is “learn to market it,” take that advice and shove it so far up where the sun doesn’t shine you’ll need a miner’s lamp to find it again. You can say, “But Terranode already does a million transactions per second. Bitcoin doesn’t need more than that.” And maybe, right this minute, you’re right. Maybe the current state of script processing is “good enough.” And you know what? I don’t give a flying frig. Years ago, when I told people what I was building, I didn’t say I was aiming for a million transactions per second. I said it was an interim step. My goal has always been a billion—ten billion—transactions per second. And not some vague aspiration, but a clear, engineered path to get there. Only when we have real protocol resilience, SPV that executes instantly, and closed-circuit script logic that can be priced, verified, and accepted by nodes at the transaction level, will I call the framework even remotely sufficient. That’s the benchmark. That’s the standard. Not this feel-good “we’ve done enough” garbage.

You can whinge and whine that “this is all we need now.” And again, I don’t give a frig. Because I’m not building for now. I’m not patching holes in some Layer 2 duct-tape-and-glitter fantasy. I’m not stacking fragile Lego constructs on a crumbling base and calling it innovation. I’m building for the future—and every day forward from here. BTC isn’t. Ethereum isn’t. No one else is. But I am. And I’m not doing it so hobbyists can run homebrew Raspberry Pi full node zoos in their basements. I’m building a system where SPV proves inclusion and immutability of a transaction with a block header and a path—clean, efficient, verifiable—by design, not by hack.

This isn’t for your approval. This isn’t a demo. This isn’t about appeasing marketing lemmings who think shouting “number go up” qualifies as protocol work. I’m doing this because I chose to. And if that offends your hobbyist sensibilities—well, stiff bickies. I don’t care.

BSV: The Fixed Protocol for a Lawful Digital Economy

In a digital landscape riddled with forks, speculative detours, and ideological noise, the survival of a true economic protocol depends not on flexibility, but on its refusal to change. BSV, the only implementation of the original Bitcoin protocol that has not been distorted, stands in stark opposition to the shifting tides of so-called innovation. It is not a coin. It is not a movement. It is not a story sold to venture capital. It is a lawful, immutable system — engineered to scale, to integrate, and to endure.

While most projects operating under the banner of “blockchain” speak of community votes, soft forks, and governance tokens, BSV speaks in the language of contracts, timestamps, and evidence. Its strength lies in its rigidity. In a world seduced by chaos, BSV is a return to law. A return to architecture. A return to the cold, deliberate logic of systems engineering — not the hot breath of ideological fervour. The Myth of Evolution

The central marketing lie in the blockchain sector is that protocols must evolve. That “open-source” means editable. That the system is a perpetual beta. Bitcoin was not designed to be experimental. It was a finished protocol — much like TCP/IP or SMTP — with clear rules, defined incentives, and a complete mechanism for enforcement. The elegance of Bitcoin was its completeness. The tragedy was that this elegance was ignored.

BTC Core abandoned the economic model by fixing the block size — creating an artificial scarcity that broke the system's incentive structure and required fees to spike to unsustainable levels. ETH, in turn, rejected the very concept of economic finality and now clings to “validator” regimes that are equal parts inefficient and unaccountable. These are not upgrades. They are regressions — capitulations to disorder. They sacrifice scalability, predictability, and legality in favour of committee-think and social consensus.

BSV rejected all of this. It restored the original design and then proved what others only theorised. It unlocked the block size. It processed millions of transactions. It timestamped legal contracts, financial data, and identity logs in real time. It demonstrated, through live activity, that scale was not a future goal — it was an architectural feature from the beginning.

#BSV: The Only Blockchain That Isn’t a Lie.

The Protocol Is Locked. The Potential Is Not.

Every other blockchain is a moving target.
Every update is an admission of failure.
Every fork is an abandonment of law.
BSV does not move.
It was designed right — from the beginning. They call it evolution.
We call it entropy.
Bitcoin was built as a digital cash system.
Not a consensus experiment.
Not a speculative Ponzi.
Not a roadmap to nowhere.

In 2015, BTC was trading at approximately $250. By 2020, it had reached around $9,000—a 36-fold increase. From 2020 to 2025, it climbed to a high-water mark near $60,000, representing only a 6.6-fold increase. That change in velocity isn’t an accident or a pause—it’s a pattern. What’s happening is not exponential growth, but logistic saturation. Exponential curves don’t flatten unless constrained. Logistic curves do. BTC’s price growth is not a runaway function—it’s bounded. The illusion of infinity ends where adoption slows, where energy cost rises, where utility fails to match hype.

Every economic bubble has a sigmoid curve at its core: a sharp rise, a taper, and then stagnation or collapse. The halving events were once catalysts for speculative frenzy because they tightened supply in a market still swelling with naïve demand. But each halving matters less. The marginal reduction in supply becomes negligible, while the pool of greater fools dries up. There’s no new flood of users, only reshuffled bags and tighter hands.

Come 2030, the market will likely reflect that plateau. Growth no longer pays, because price no longer promises. The feedback loop between “number go up” and new retail inflows fractures. When a system relies on increasing belief to sustain its own valuation, it is not an asset—it is a story.

And all stories end. In competing environments governed by logistic dynamics—such as predator-prey systems or economic models with finite inflow—the flattened curve doesn’t signal stability; it signals fragility. After the peak of growth, what comes is not a permanent plateau, but a tipping point. Whether it's rabbits outgrowing the grass or wolves outstripping the deer, once the system overshoots its carrying capacity, collapse is not a possibility—it’s an inevitability.

BTC has already exhibited the hallmarks of this transition. From 2015 to 2020, the price increase was astronomical. From 2020 to 2025, the curve softened. That’s your inflection. And in all logistic systems, once the growth rate begins to dampen, the system enters a metastable state—appearing steady, but actually perched on the edge of decline. You get oscillations, volatility, but the net energy—be it biological, financial, or speculative—starts bleeding out. Traders call this distribution. Ecologists call it die-off.

What follows is the bullpup stampede: the critical point where each participant sees the others poised to exit. The run to the exit doesn’t require a trigger—only the anticipation of others running. It’s self-fulfilling. The curve drops not because some singular event happened, but because enough people begin to act on the awareness that growth has stopped. That’s the real collapse. Not a bang, but the slow, grinding realisation that the exponential fantasy has expired.

So yes, you can argue it may take five more years, or ten. But if your BTC sits stagnant for a decade, doing nothing more than inflation erosion and drawing in no utility or yield—how is that a win? Holding an asset that underperforms a savings account, on the hope that someday someone will rescue you from your delusion at a higher price, is not investing. It’s ritual. And the end of the ritual is the same: collapse under the weight of its own unmet prophecy.

Time to torch the sacred mantras of BTC Core one by one.

This thread is your guided demolition tour through the landfill of slogans, cope, and cultish techno-Buddhism masquerading as economic literacy.

We’ll take each tired phrase—“Bitcoin is for everyone,” “be your own bank,” “permissionless innovation”—and subject it to the unrelenting pressure of reality, economics, and common sense.

Bring popcorn. Or better yet, bring a functioning blockchain. You're gonna need it. Bitcoin (BTC) is for everyone

Except, of course, if you're one of the 3.6 billion people living on less than $5.50 a day. Then Bitcoin (BTC) is for everyone else. Because nothing screams “inclusion” like a $20 fee to send $2—assuming the mempool gods smile upon you sometime this fiscal quarter. It's a global financial revolution… for those who can afford to pay more in transaction fees than a Bangladeshi garment worker earns in a week.

Welcome to the people's protocol—where “everyone” actually means hardware wallet shills, hedge funds, and Californian tech bros in Patagonia vests.

Imagine being Ryan X. Charles. You spend years orbiting the truth like a moth on Adderall, finally land on something correct—yes, Bitcoin is Turing-complete, yes, Craig was right, yes, it can actually scale—and instead of building, you implode like a sad soufflé in a thunderstorm. Not because of logic. Not because of facts. Because fundraising was hard. Because reality didn’t come with VC coupons and a shoulder rub.

So what does Ryan do? He melts down like a toddler denied a second scoop of hopium, wails on social like crypto’s answer to Chicken Little, and flings himself back into the arms of the very cult he spent years escaping. It’s not just a U-turn. It’s a skid-marked pirouette in a clown car driven by ego and desperation. He didn’t fall—he faceplanted, then blamed gravity.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just flip-flopping. This is Cirque du Soleil-level spinelessness. Earthworms look at Ryan and go, “Mate, at least I regenerate something.” What does he regenerate? Blog posts. Pity clicks. Revisions of his “final” word that age worse than milk on a radiator.

He wasn’t pushed. He curled. Folded under the pressure of having to do something, to build something, to stand for something. And instead of fixing the flaws in his pitch deck, he crawled back begging, hat in one hand, dignity in none, whispering “please take me back, I’ll say anything… I’ll suck anything.”

Sad. Predictable. And not remotely surprising.

@ryan_x_charles Imagine investing years—years—of your life combing through code, verifying functions, collaborating with people who actually knew what they were doing. You weren’t handed belief—you built understanding. You saw it work. You made it work. You stood there at the edge of the map and confirmed: yes, the earth is round, and yes, Bitcoin is Turing-complete. But then, when the VC fountain ran dry and the applause didn’t roll in on cue, you folded like a card table at a church bake sale.

It wasn’t that your app was half-baked, or that your product lacked polish. It couldn’t be that you needed to iterate, hustle, grind. No—suddenly, the protocol is broken. The tech is wrong. Reality itself must have betrayed you. Because in your head, you were always destined to be the billionaire, the messiah, the chosen one with perfect timing and a flawless pitch deck.

Instead, when the money didn’t materialise and Pay Button didn’t turn into PayPal 2.0 overnight, you went from visionary to revisionist. You rewrote your own history in real time, gaslighting the very journey you took part in. One moment you’re building beside the man who wrote the code, the next you’re playing sad trombone to a chorus of “I was wrong,” hoping the enemies you burned will forget—and fund you anyway.

But the truth is, you didn’t just give up. You bailed out of integrity. You defected not because it failed, but because you couldn’t turn it into a shortcut to glory. And now the wreckage of your tantrum is there for all to see: not a critique of the system, but a mirror held to your own fragility.

Jameson Lopp writes like the concierge of a prison, politely explaining the rules of your own confinement while pretending you hold the keys. The man built a career polishing the bars on BTC’s cell—sanding them smooth with charts, encryption mantras, and half-baked "sovereignty" lectures that forget the central rule of power: if you can’t move value freely, you don’t have sovereignty. You have an account.

@lopp will tell you running a node makes you free, while he cheers on a system so crippled it can’t process more transactions than a PayPal integration from 2004. He’ll quote cypherpunk manifestos while supporting a protocol neutered into economic irrelevance. He worships Lightning—a duct-taped IOU system—as if it were Prometheus handing down fire, when all it really hands down is complexity, delay, and failure. It’s a glorified bar tab.

His idea of security is stagnation. His idea of freedom is fragility. His idea of Bitcoin is something that begs governments for relevance by being so boring, so slow, and so small it no longer poses any threat to anything.

Bitcoin at scale terrifies institutions. Lopp’s BTC comforts them.

He is the banker’s favourite rebel. He talks about sovereignty, like a preacher mumbling freedom while bolting the church doors shut. The same man who neutered the system, gutted it, replaced cash with a sandbox and called it progress. What once was anonymity through scale now kneels before surveillance. Orwell didn’t dream this up—Lopp helped build it. 1984-level oversight, gift-wrapped as self-custody.

It’s honestly amazing—the sheer level of tribalism around Trump. People aren’t evaluating policy, they’re chanting slogans. They’re not thinking. They’re clapping. He says “I’m bringing back manufacturing,” and instead of asking what kind, how, where, at what cost, and who benefits, you just nod and hit retweet like he just cured cancer with a Sharpie.

Let’s break this down. Take chip fabrication—he wants fabs in Texas? You don’t just build a chip plant like you’re putting up a Wendy’s. It takes years. Five to ten years, minimum, from breaking ground to producing anything useful. Then you need the engineers. Not just someone who can plug in a machine—PhDs in materials science, high-precision technicians, semiconductor process experts, people who understand quantum tunnelling and nanometre-scale lithography. Most of them? Already in Taiwan, South Korea, or trained under systems that took decades to mature.

You’d have to train an entire generation. That’s university pipelines, trade schools, immigration policy, infrastructure, water supply (yes, fabs drink water like Vegas), and $20–$40 billion per site. And that's just one fab.

By the time America’s “manufacturing renaissance” finishes rubbing two sticks together, the rest of the world will be running on lights-out factories—fully autonomous, zero workers, 24/7 precision robotic efficiency. That’s the future. That’s where it’s going. Jobs aren’t coming back. They’re being deleted, like blacksmiths after the combustion engine. You want to revive the American steel town? Great. Just make sure your welders have AI ops certifications and know how to write Python, because the next forge runs on code and doesn’t take lunch breaks.

But here’s the tragedy: instead of embracing that future, instead of asking how we lead, how we build, how we own the frontier—we wrap ourselves in red hats and act like it’s 1954. We fall for the pageantry. For the theatre of “bringing it back,” even when what’s being “brought back” hasn’t existed in thirty years and wouldn’t survive in today’s market anyway.

You think you’re on the Trump team.
You think you’re winning.
But all you’re doing is cheering for a ghost.

You’re not just being left behind—you’re clapping while it happens. For all the so-called followers who say they “don’t like” what I’m saying—let me make it brutally clear. What you’re really saying is you want me to be a populist. You want me to jump through flaming hoops of bullshit. Say the right buzzwords. Feed you fantasy like it’s gospel. Basically, you want me to be your own private Trump. Dance, lie, repeat. Smile while spoon-feeding you delusion.

I don’t do that. Never have. Never will.

You don’t like it? I don’t give a fuck. Because what I’m giving you isn’t comfort. It’s reality.
Manufacturing jobs are not coming back to America. Full. Fucking. Stop.
That ship didn’t just sail—it was automated, disassembled mid-voyage, and turned into a data centre in Shenzhen before you even noticed.

If you believe otherwise, you're not just misinformed—you’re delusional. And that's fine. You're allowed to be. Just don't expect me to pretend it's raining while you’re pissing on your own boots and calling it economic policy.

You want to win? Then stop aiming at where the target was. Start aiming where it’s going to be. Do the Wayne Gretzky thing: "Skate to where the puck is going." The problem is, most of you are skating in circles, stuck in some Reagan-era hallucination, waiting for the steel mill to reopen while Boston Dynamics is building the robot that’ll weld better, faster, and never call in sick.

Even China is automating. Even China, the factory of the world, is bleeding manufacturing jobs faster than it can plug them. They're not planning to bring jobs back—they're planning to eliminate them and own the infrastructure that does the replacing.

So what the hell are we doing?

We're whining. We're nostalgic. We’re waving flags over industries that don’t exist anymore.
It’s like bragging about your VHS collection at a Netflix board meeting. You’re not just behind—you’re irrelevant.

You want to be great? Then stop getting offended when someone tells you the future doesn’t include your fantasy. Start working out how you fit into a world where intelligence, automation, and adaptability win—not volume, not sweat, and not cheap patriotism.

You’ve got ten years. Maybe less.
You can spend them crying about what’s gone.
Or you can spend them becoming someone who matters in what’s coming.

Your choice.

The ability to transact instantly, globally, at scale, without friction—this is not a minor improvement. It is not a footnote in economic theory. It is a fundamental transformation, an evolution of the very fabric of commerce, a shift so vast that those who cling to the past will find themselves buried beneath it. Micropayments, true micropayments, are not a gimmick. They are the natural state of a system freed from artificial constraints. And Bitcoin—the real Bitcoin, BSV—is the only system that was designed to facilitate this reality.

A world where transactions are instant, final, and nearly free is a world where entire industries become unrecognizable. The model of centralized distribution—of products, of media, of services—is obsolete in the face of a system where an individual can create, distribute, and monetize without the layers of middlemen that have acted as parasites for centuries. The gatekeepers—those who demand a cut, those who build systems of control, those who ensure that nothing flows without their approval—they are the ones who stand to lose the most. And they know it. That is why they resist. That is why they fight. Not because they do not understand, but because they do. A System Without Friction
A musician, today, relies on a platform. A writer relies on a publisher. A developer relies on an app store. Each of these industries has been built around the assumption that value must be extracted, that the creator must be dependent, that monetization must flow through a controlled channel. Micropayments obliterate this assumption. The ability to transact in real time, at any scale, without third-party control, destroys the need for these centralized models. A song is created and sold directly to the listener, per play, per second if necessary. A game is built and monetized at the smallest level—every action, every interaction, can be a microtransaction, a payment stream that bypasses corporations entirely.

This is not theory. This is inevitable. The only question is who adapts and who resists. The business model of the past century was based on scarcity—of information, of production, of access. The model of the future is based on abundance, on instant exchange, on frictionless interaction. And Bitcoin—the real Bitcoin—enables this at a level that no centralized system ever could.

A tariff is a tax with a nationalist’s grin and a businessman’s noose. It parades itself as the bulwark against foreign wolves, the savior of domestic industry, the righteous cudgel of protectionism wielded in the hands of bureaucrats who have never created anything, never lifted steel or coded a single efficient function. It is the illusion of strength built on an edifice of restriction, a castle made of paperwork and duty fees, where the consumer is locked inside, paying ever more for the privilege of less.

The justification is always the same: protect our own, strengthen our industry, keep the money here. A politician in a crumpled suit, backed by a union man with hands that have forgotten work, will tell you that tariffs will save the working man, protect the steel mill, keep jobs in the homeland. But the numbers betray them. A tariff is a price hike by decree. It doesn’t birth new industry—it nurses inefficiency. The consumer, the forgotten man, sees the price of his goods climb, his wages stagnate, and his choices narrow. And yet he is told that this is for his benefit. That he must pay more so that an industry that should have evolved can instead entrench itself, immune to competition, coddled by law.

A tariff is the drug of the industrialist who cannot compete. It is the grant of power to those who have failed at the free market’s brutal but fair game. In an economy where tariffs rise, businesses stop striving to be better—they only need to be well-connected. The handshake of the businessman no longer extends to the customer but to the politician who signs the protectionist decree. The invisible hand, the hand that should guide the market, is shackled by bureaucracy. And what is bureaucracy but the place where efficiency goes to die, where men who cannot create dictate the terms to those who can?

The local economy under tariffs becomes an ecosystem of stagnation. The domestic producer, shielded from competition, grows complacent. Why innovate when the government has ensured the foreigner cannot undercut your price? Why improve if the consumer has no alternative? The tariff is the enemy of progress, the indulgence of those who fear the crucible of competition. The local producer, now emboldened, sets prices not by the rigors of supply and demand but by the artificial constraints of government fiat. The consumer has no choice but to pay, and so he does. Or he does not, and instead, he buys less, consumes less, the economy shrinks, and the industry that was meant to be protected now finds itself withering from within.

The argument is that tariffs create jobs, that they keep industry afloat, that without them, local production will vanish. But the reality is more sinister: tariffs do not protect jobs, they protect inefficiencies. A business that requires government intervention to survive is not a business at all—it is a parasite, feeding not off of competition and ingenuity, but off of legislation and coercion. And so the consumer subsidizes failure, the economy is molded not by merit but by political favor, and the industry that should have perished in the fire of innovation instead lumbers forward, bloated and archaic.

And yet, there is a political genius in tariffs. A clever leader, one who understands the cynicism of his trade, knows that the average man does not follow the long arc of economic consequence. He sees only the immediate. A factory saved, a job retained, a wage not yet cut. The cost of his groceries rising? A tax here, a fee there? These are scattered burdens, felt individually, never laid at the feet of the tariff itself. The politician counts on this ignorance. He feeds it. He will tell the voter that foreign interests are the enemy, that the tariff is the weapon of sovereignty. He does not tell him that he has just traded long-term prosperity for short-term optics, that the protection of today is the stagnation of tomorrow. The true alternative is not protectionism but strength—real strength, forged in competition, in the necessity of adaptation. The business that thrives is the business that competes, not the one that hides behind government walls. The nation that thrives is the one that embraces efficiency, not one that subsidizes mediocrity. The tariff is an illusion, a balm for industries that refuse to evolve. And the consumer, always the consumer, is the one who pays for that illusion, until the illusion crumbles and the bill comes due.

And it will come due. It always does.

It’s a con. A goddamn racket. Post-quantum cryptography, quantum computing—whatever name they slap on it, it’s all the same carnival act. They talk like it's the future, like it’s just over the horizon, always just one more breakthrough away. One more grant, one more decade, one more layer of theoretical nonsense stacked on top of a house built on swamp water. But let’s be honest—there isn’t a single real quantum computer on this planet. Not one. Never has been. Never will be.

They’ll say otherwise. They’ll throw equations at you, wave their white papers around, dress up their machines with tubes and wiring and call them miracles. The headlines will scream Quantum Supremacy! like it's some new kind of second coming. But where’s the supremacy? Where’s the proof? Nowhere. Just more press releases, more university research budgets swollen with public money, more government subsidies dumped into a fire pit.

Because here’s the truth: they will never solve decoherence. The whole foundation is rotten. It goes against physics itself, not the wishy-washy physics they peddle in their TED talks, but real physics—the kind that doesn’t bend just because someone scribbles new symbols on a blackboard. The whole thing is an exercise in controlled confusion, designed to keep the money flowing. They’ll never admit it because there’s too much at stake.

Governments will keep throwing money at it, hoping, praying that somewhere in the labyrinth of jargon and nonsense, they’ll find a god they can kneel to. Corporations will keep playing along because there's money in the illusion, and as long as they can keep talking about a revolution that never comes, they can keep the contracts rolling in.

It’s not about solving problems. It’s about prolonging them. That’s the business model. There’s nothing new here—just another golden calf being carted around by the same old priests, promising salvation while they pocket the offerings. Quantum computing isn’t a revolution. It’s a boondoggle, a long con, a trick that only works if you keep the rubes from looking too close. And the biggest trick of all? Making you believe it’s inevitable.

It’s not. It never was. It never will be. If this is ever used to change bitcoin...

The result is not Bitcoin.