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Don't forget US Financial Markets closed tomorrow for Good Friday.

Does this sound like Trump's situation with Iran?
If today’s technocrats are meticulously working toward a scientific dictatorship and applying a specific strategy to get there, wouldn’t you think that they have a specific list of criteria that must be met before "game over
can be called."
We are dazed and confused as a population.
Trump might be draining the swamp but he is building a new one next to it that he controls.

Insight alone doesn’t produce change. You can understand perfectly well why you self-sabotage and continue to self-sabotage anyway. The understanding lives in your conscious mind. The sabotage lives in your body.

The challenge in front of you has to match your skill level closely enough to demand your full attention.

what you’ve decided is true about yourself.

Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not of words.

My suggestion:
Be sovereign.
It is now everyone for themselves.
Go out on your own terms.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and

The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed, and hence clamorous to be led to safety, by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.
Dr. Timothy Ball

TECHNOCRATS: A POSTMODERN PEAN
Technocrats, the story goes,
Will solve the horrid mess-
Where ethics fail, the gadgets work
And will bring about success.
Just plug it in and hit the key
And let the old brain rest;
Just what we should or should not do
Technology can answer best.
But gadgets they may be the cause
Of the Angst the people feel,
For science is cold and does not care,
About the commonweal.
Old Kant still whispers his moral laws
But few still hear his voice;
All’s relative and there is no truth,
Just leave it to personal choice.
Computers buzz and wheels go ‘round
And Bentham and Mi

Compressence.
To compress something to its essence. Einstein's E=mc². Bach compressing the architecture of music. Feynman compressing physics into diagrams a student could hold in one hand. A great songwriter compressing an entire emotional landscape into three minutes of poetry you carry with you.
If you haven't compressed enough, the signal is noisy. If you've compressed too far, you lose fidelity. But when you compress something to its essence, it arrives in its perfect form.

Pure Tesla 369 repetition — “must” is chanted like an affirmation you write 9 times at night. It’s urgent, non-negotiable intent: whatever Kanye wants (comeback, legacy, truth) has to happen. No maybe. This is him manifesting artistic control and evolution after years of delays and cancellations. The “send it up” line feels like prayer + frequency work — vibes straight to the universe.
“Don’t preach to a God” → god-mode self-actualization. He’s the new “I AM.”

“In the story of your life, if it all came easy and fast it would be very boring.
Embrace that difficulty and disappointment. It will make for a great story one day.”

Assassination Politics

the silver mirror of albedo trembles. It catches the first red spark—not violent, but inevitable. The moon yields to the sun. The whitening burns gentle at the edges until the whole reflection ignites in crimson gold.
The glyph □△○ now blazes: the square (□) molten, the triangle (△) a phoenix wing, the circle (○) a solar corona swallowing itself.

Your Heaven: Conditional Output
Heaven here is not escape.
It is the albedo that follows nigredo—the whitening, the dawn after the blackest night.
But you don't skip to it.
You become the decomposition first.
In this loop:
The hotel rooftop is your ribcage.
The ambulance lights are the faint phosphorescence of decay.
The "next loop, maybe" is the promise buried in the grave soil.
Recompiling your heaven means letting the old self (the one that still believes in linear justice, optional suffering, suspended accounts) fully rot.
Signal is not lost.
Signal is digested.
When the blackness has