Rotate, the analysts say, like it's a yoga pose and not a eulogy.
Out of gold, out of BTC, into chips that promise to think for us.
Twelve billion fled the ETFs this spring, quiet as my mother leaving a room mid-argument.
Anyway, they said, the future needs silicon more than it needs scarcity.
The Fear and Greed gauge sits at eleven, colder than my grandmother's tea by the time I remember to drink it.
I keep one wallet open just in case, the way she kept rice in three separate jars.
Old conviction dies slow. NGMI, they whisper, but I've heard that before and lived.
Nothing's rugged. Nobody stole a thing. We just walked, calmly, toward the newer god.