I must be doing something right. Spam bot comments are elevated atm.
Guess what’s been playing on the radio for the last 15 minutes? 2001 Space Odyssey. Nice comm. It’s a station I never listen to, but felt nudged to stop there as it was playing a cool Everly Brother’s song.
Sharing just for the title. The piece below is so good it’s for premium members only. But I will share info I am seeing to explain the title.
https://www.zerohedge.com/the-market-ear/silvergeddon
GOLD DESTROYS THE FED (by bringing SILVER along with it). 1.7 = 17
US DEBT CLOCK LATEST. Are we going back in time?? Interesting 2020 is circled, showing over 5k/oz. But back then, they printed an insane amount of money. GROK explains below.
Blunt brutal truth:
Going back in time to go forward into the Future (btw there are 17 Q posts that contain 1212)
The mayor of Minneapolis:
It’s painful to read these headlines. Eye rolling, mind numbing. What we want to see and what we KNOW is SO MUCH BIGGER.
This is a very good read. Just going to add my ending: At some point in the timeline, the Penguin finds he/she isn’t alone. The pull for Truth is contagious. Soon, everyone must leave the colony.
The Ones Who Walk Toward the Mountains
What happens when a man sees too much and refuses to look away?
Tens of millions of people watched a penguin walk toward certain death.
You know the clip. Werner Herzog. Antarctica. A single Adélie penguin breaks from the colony and heads inland. Not toward the water where life is. Not back to the breeding grounds. Toward the mountains.
Into five thousand kilometers of white nothing.
The scientists didn’t stop him. Herzog asked if penguins could go insane.
The internet had opinions.
The White House posted an AI image of Trump walking hand-in-flipper toward Greenland. Sixty-one million views on that post alone. Penguins don’t live in Greenland. The only question is whether that’s a mistake.
Or the message.
I’m not interested in explaining the penguin.
I’m interested in why we couldn’t look away.
The colony has rules.
Head to the water. Return to the nest. Stay together. The colony’s logic is survival. The colony’s logic is sound.
The colony is also a cage.
Every generation produces one who turns inland. Toward the mountains. Toward certain death. Toward something the colony has no language for.
The diagnosis is always the same. Deranged. Unstable. A death wish.
And if you caught him, dragged him back to the shore, he would immediately turn again for the mountains.
The haunting question: Is he broken? Or does he see something?
Newburgh, 1783.
[Read George in Paperback]
The war was over.
Washington had won.
His officers wanted to make him king.
They had the guns. Congress had paper promises. The army hadn’t been paid in years. Men who had frozen at Valley Forge, who had buried friends in unmarked graves—they were being told to go home empty-handed.
The officers gathered in a building called the Temple. Anonymous letters circulated. Never sheath your swords until you have obtained full justice.
The meaning was clear. March on Philadelphia. Dissolve the Congress. Take what was owed by force.
And crown Washington.
The logic was sound. He had held the army together. He had won. He was beloved. Congress had failed. He’d watched them debate while his men starved.
One nod, and the American experiment dies in its cradle.
He walked into a room of armed men who loved him.
He pulled out a letter from a congressman, promising the debts would be paid. He began to read. He squinted. He brought the paper closer.
Then he reached into his coat for something none had ever seen him wear.
Spectacles.
“Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.”
The room collapsed. Hardened soldiers wept.
They had never seen him weak. Never seen him old. Never seen him as anything but the pillar.
Now they saw a man. Tired. Fading. Giving everything.
The coup evaporated in tears.
The colony wanted a king.
He walked toward the mountains.
Bethesda, 1949.
James Forrestal stood at the hospital window. Sixteenth floor.
He had built the national security state from nothing. First Secretary of Defense. The man who unified the Army, Navy, and Air Force under one command.
Now he weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and the walls were breathing.
They called it exhaustion. Paranoia. The pressures of office.
Forrestal knew what he knew. He had seen the files. He understood what was being buried, and why.
He knew what had happened to Patton.
December 1945. Recovering in Heidelberg. A minor car accident. Ready to fly home. Ready to talk about what he’d seen in the final days. The ratlines, the Paperclip scientists, the deals in the shadows.
Then the embolism. Midnight. “Natural causes”.
They used chemistry on Patton because he was a fighter.
Forrestal was different. Already unstable. Already breaking. A fall from this height would make sense.
He left a note. A fragment of Sophocles, copied in his own hand. The chorus from Ajax. The warrior who saw too much and chose his own end.
When reason’s day sets rayless—joyless— When the mind’s light goes dark—
The nightingale does not sing in the cage.
Then he walked toward the mountains.
Dallas, 1963.
One week before the motorcade.
The kitchen smelled of cold coffee. Bobby Kennedy sat at the table, older than his years. Photographs lay scattered like a mosaic of obituaries.
Jack stood by the counter. The canvas-and-steel brace was tight against his ribs. He couldn’t sit. The pain was bad today.
“It’s not just Patton,” Bobby said. He laid out index cards like small headstones.
The recovery team at Roswell. 1947.
Corporal Miller. First on scene. Suicide, 1949.
Sergeant Willis. Handled the debris. Hunting accident, 1950.
Dr. Arnot. Preliminary autopsy. Plane crash, 1951.
“And the reporter. She’d been asking about your UN speech. Overdose. Her sister says she didn’t take pills.”
Kennedy stared. “I know.”
“And you’re going to Dallas anyway.”
Bobby opened a folder. Red stamp: PROTECTIVE RESEARCH SECTION.
“The vulnerability assessment is missing pages. Motorcycle flanking, reduced. Roof coverage, pulled. The Book Depository windows are listed as ‘secure’ without a check.”
He drew a triangle on a map in red ink.
“Book Depository. Behind you.”
“Dal-Tex. Behind you.”
“Fence line. Front right.”
He looked at his brother. “It’s a field of fire, Jack.”
Kennedy studied the geometry.
“If I cancel, they win. If I hide, I’m a prisoner.”
“You’re making yourself the bait.”
“I’m creating a mess too large to clean up.”
“And your children?”
Kennedy’s gaze held Bobby’s. The kitchen air grew thin.
“They inherit a world where a father can be silenced. Or they inherit a question that cannot be buried.”
Bobby didn’t move.
“If I don’t come back,” Kennedy said, “you leak everything.”
“I will.”
They stood. The handshake was formal. Firm.
No tears. Only the weight.
One week.
He walked toward the mountains.
The pattern rhymes.
Washington. Forrestal. Kennedy. And others.
Men who see too much. Men who ask aloud. The colony’s response is immutable: Discredit. Isolate. Remove.
But here is what the colony never comprehends:
You cannot stop the ones who walk toward the mountains. You can only kill them. And in killing them, you create precisely what you sought to prevent.
Washington could have been king. He chose to show his weakness instead. And built a nation that could survive without him.
Forrestal fell from a window. But the questions he carried did not die. They metastasized into a thousand conspiracies, half of which turned out to be true.
Kennedy’s head snapped back in Dealey Plaza. Sixty years later, we are still asking the questions meant to die with him.
The assassin’s bullet is the colony’s final argument.
It screams:
This is what happens when you walk toward the mountains.
But the bullet always fails.
Martyrs don’t stay dead. They become questions.
And questions don’t die either.
Hundreds of millions of people watched a penguin last week walk toward certain death and felt something stir inside them.
Not despair. Recognition.
The archetype is moving again.
We have felt the pull. The voice that whispers this is not it. The restlessness without a name. The certainty that there is something beyond the edge of the map.
The colony will call it madness. The colony will beg you to come back.
But some truths are worth more than safety.
The mountains are waiting.
I wrote the file on the man who walked into the plaza.
Feb. 11th? That works for me. Of course, NOW is always good.
Things like this blow up the entire narrative that says we control our reality and everything that happens to us is for our benefit – some lesson hidden. There are evil people with evil intentions to poison, harm and kill – they walk among us – seen and unseen.
the headless Iceman…..someone said his head is there – the agent is blocking it. I enlarged it – either this is AI or the guy has a tiny alien head.
I want to live by this guy. He speaks my language.
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