The morning light came slow through the blinds, casting its soft judgment on a face already hollowed by the night’s vigil—wallet open, charts red, the hushed collapse of dreams echoing louder than thunder ever could. I watched them fall—my coins, my tokens, those little baptized hopes I cradled like a fatherless thing—watched them fall not with a scream but with a silence that tore the marrow from the bones. It was not just the money, no. It was the belief, the awful belief, that this time it might be different, that perhaps we had outrun the shadow of the bear and built something that could stand. And yet, here it was, the ruin, sprawled naked across the ledger like the dead left in the sun—ETH gutted, SOL dragging itself through the dust like a wounded hound, even DOGE, foolish as it ever was, whimpering out its last. I sat there, still, the smell of burnt coffee and stale regret thick in the room, a witness to the slow violence of markets and men, to the futility of faith dressed in digital flesh. It wasn’t just a crash. It was a reckoning. And the saddest part, the part I can’t scrub clean, is I still opened the app again this morning—just to look.