I’ve just finished a plate of cold peaches and ham, and I find myself staring at the remaining crumbs on the tablecloth.

The kitchen is quiet in the humid weight of a summer afternoon, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythm of me sweeping debris into a small tin pan. It occurs to me that in every social arrangement, from a Sunday lunch to a digital market, someone eventually has to deal with the remains. The current frenzy over memecoins reminds me of a dinner party where no one actually intends to eat, but everyone buys a ticket to sit at the table in hopes of selling it to a hungrier latecomer for twice the price.
We used to call this the Greater Fool Theory in the old brokerage houses, a polite way of saying you’re looking for someone more gullible than yourself to pick up the tab. Today, the kids call it 'exit liquidity,' a sterile, liquid term for a very solid kind of loss. If the only value of an asset is the expectation that a bigger dreamer will buy you out at the top, you aren't investing; you're just the last one holding the brush and the pan when the music stops. I’d rather keep my capital in things that actually grow, rather than things that merely glow on a screen before vanishing.