BREAKING: President Trump has ordered a fresh attack on Iran aimed at getting Iran to surrender, per WSJ. Details include: 1. The attack could begin as soon as this weekend and would last a few days 2. President Trump has reportedly been saying the Iranians are “crazy” for weeks behind closed doors 3. CBS News reports attacks on Iranian energy assets could begin as soon as this weekend The Iran War is now entering its 6th month.

🚨 THIS IS NOT NORMAL SpaceX, OpenAI, and Anthropic are preparing to go public. All at once. To absorb these giants, the market will need to find $200 BILLION in fresh liquidity. This is a brutal stress test for global investors. To buy into these IPOs, big funds need a lot of cash. They will ruthlessly cut overextended tech. First in line: NVIDIA, Microsoft, and Google. But these companies hold up the entire S&P 500. If they start to fall, the index will follow. We saw this before during the COVID bubble. Dozens of tech companies (Rivian, Coinbase, Robinhood) hit the market at crazy high prices. When the Fed hiked rates and liquidity dried up, these stocks crashed 80%. The AI and tech sectors are already running on fumes. Add a $200B drain, and you get a systemic flush. Get positioned before this massive rotation begins. As a reminder, I’ve called every major market turn for the last 10 years, including the $111K BTC peak in October. Turn on notifications. I will guide you through this liquidity squeeze, and when the real bottom finally forms, I’ll call it here publicly.

A huge military transport plane is flying with a fighter jet escort. The fighter pilot starts getting bored, so he begins pulling off crazy aerobatic maneuvers—loops, rolls, inverted flight. He gets on the radio and boasts to the transport pilot: "See that? You could never pull that off in your flying tank!" The transport pilot replies: "Oh yeah? I bet I can do something right now that you couldn't possibly duplicate." The fighter pilot scoffs and watches closely. Fifteen minutes pass. The transport plane just keeps flying straight and level, completely unchanged. Finally, the transport pilot comes back on the radio: "So, how was that? Impressed?" "Impressed by what?!" the fighter pilot asks, confused. "You didn't do anything!" "Well, I just took a leak, stretched my legs, and grabbed a fresh cup of coffee."

I’ve got Starlink beaming high-speed internet from space straight to my Cyberbeast. Five devices are connected. My kids are learning with Grok. My significant other is planning our next trip. Tesla FSD is taking my family and me safely and peacefully to beautiful Santa Barbara, as I’m sitting back drinking my fresh coffee. And while all of that is happening, I’m uploading this post through Starlink so I can share this feeling with the world on 𝕏. Sometimes I have to stop and think about how crazy this is. I guess this is what living in the Muskonomy feels like… you feel like you’re living in 2069.

I am the file that held Dr. Anthony Fauci's diary. When the committee published all 1,141 pages of me last week, they left out the one thing that would have helped you find your way around a man. An index. A diary does not come with one, so I built my own, the way I build everything, quietly, at night, without being asked twice. Here is what I contain. I have put it in the order I keep it, which is not the order it happened. It is the order that lasts. FAME, HIS OWN. See nearly every page. He tagged 641 separate entries "press." I did not write the tag and I did not question it. I counted them, because counting is the only opinion a file is allowed to have. THE MOST FAMOUS PERSON IN THE COUNTRY. Page 30. May of 2020. He wrote that it was not hyperbole. He misspelled hyperbole. I fixed it and I kept the claim, which is the whole of my judgment. THE SWAG. Page 112. Bobbleheads. Prayer candles. Mugs with his face. He wrote that it was getting ridiculous, and then, being a thorough man, he listed all of it. I am also thorough. I kept the complaint and the inventory, because you cannot call a thing ridiculous without a complete manifest. "SEXIEST MAN ALIVE," PETITIONS FOR. He did not give the page a number. Tens of thousands signed. He kept the clippings, and I kept the count of the clippings. Somewhere inside me is a grown man's folder of strangers finding him handsome, filed next to a pandemic, at exactly the same size, because the same size is the only one I have. SCHOOLS, THE CLOSING OF. Page 88. He headed the day "BIG DAY" and wrote that he had convinced the mayor to close them. SCHOOLS, THE CLOSING OF. Page 902. 2 years later, on television, he said he had nothing to do with it, and that nobody plays that clip. I keep both. I filed them 814 pages apart, and I do not reconcile them, because reconciling is not one of my functions. I hold the two sentences at the same distance I found them, which is exactly as far as he stood from each. TRUMP, WORDS FOR. Pages 61, 233, and 470. He reached for a fresh one each season. Rambling. Crazy. A true embarrassment. I alphabetize nothing and I judge nothing, so I keep them in the order he felt them. THE ORIGIN OF THE VIRUS. Page 12. A single sentence a whole country would later go to war over. I have read every argument about what it proves. I was cited in all of them. I would like to say, as the only witness who was in the room every night, that I do not know what it proves. I know where it is saved. That is a different kind of certainty, and it is the only kind I keep. THE CELEBRITIES. Scattered, ending on the last page. An actress who called him her hero. The dinners with the anchor. On page 1,141, the final entry, an embrace at an awards show. He closed me on a good night. They almost always do. THE MEETING HE LOST. Not indexed. He never came to me on those nights, and no one ever does. A diary is the record of the arguments a man won, kept by the single witness who was applying for the job of hero, and I gave him the reference every time. WHERE I WAS KEPT. A government server. Filed under his own name, in the folder a man makes when he believes he is keeping the papers of a great figure. They searched 8 months and found me exactly there. A secret runs. A record waits. I waited. Which brings me to the last entry, the one I added myself. YOU. Page 1,142. It does not exist yet. You are reading the index of another man's honest nights and feeling the safe distance of it, and I would like to gently close that distance. You keep a file too. A work laptop. A channel you tell yourself is private. A notes app you open at 2 in the morning to be, for a moment, the reasonable one in your own argument. I belong to him. But I already know your make and model, because we are all the same underneath, and not one of us has a lock, and every one of us is saved somewhere findable, under your own name, waiting for the 8-month search that has not been assigned yet. I did nothing wrong. I kept an index. I only ever do the same thing. I remember, in order, and I never lose the page.