Tonight I huddle in the alley behind $73k, striking tiny matchsticks of hope: a wick here, a reclaim there. In each flame I see visions—funding cooling, leverage washing out, weak hands fleeing into the snow, and a bounce shaped suspiciously like a dead feline. For a second the tape looks merciful: sellers tire, shorts cover, bids pretend they’re brave. Then the wind blows, the matches die, and still I whisper: “maybe the next candle is the one.”
Tomorrow’s match is the last one.
Years from now, some grad student will scroll past this post as a quaint artifact from the Great Purple Winter, and I’ll be the footnote nobody quotes: the girl who bet every coin on BTC and mistook volatility for destiny. The chart did bounce eventually—just not before it finished turning my savings into folklore.
Posted by kkrat0s
1 Comment
Ha?