They told us to be bullish. To smile. To “have conviction.” We tried. We bought the top with both hands and a loan from a friend who is, as of press time, no longer a friend. Then the candle did what candles do, and the group chat went dark.
Analysts confirmed Wednesday what holders already felt in the marrow of their bones: the floor is merely a suggestion, the bottom is a personality trait, and the moon — reached for comment — has left no forwarding address.
$BEARISH is not a prediction. It is a diagnosis. It is the cigarette you light when the screen turns red again; the laugh you get in place of the lambo. There is no roadmap. There is no utility. There is only us, down here, in the dirt, together — and the dirt, witnesses say, is surprisingly warm once you stop fighting it.
‘We tried everything,’ says local holder
By Thursday afternoon the mood at the bottom had curdled into something close to peace. Holders described a familiar liturgy: wake, check the chart, close the app, reopen the app, confirm the number is somehow lower, light another, repeat. “I have a system,” said one, who asked to be identified only as down catastrophically. “The system is that I do not sell. The system is not working. I love the system.”
Economists reached for comment were unable to locate a floor. “Technically the floor is zero,” said one, “but in practice these people will find a basement beneath the zero and move in. They have furniture down there. They have a group chat.” Asked whether conditions might improve, the economist exhaled slowly and changed the subject.
Community leadership has urged calm, or failing that, a dignified silence. The official guidance is unchanged since launch: do not invest the rent, touch grass when able, and remember that the candle — like all things, including your principal — is temporary. Those seeking a second opinion were directed to the chart, then advised, gently, not to look at the chart.
Attempts to reach the project's founder were redirected to a voicemail that was, on inspection, just the sound of a lighter, struck twice. A spokesperson later clarified there is no founder, no office and no plan — only the bear, the cigarette, and a collective refusal to check the time.
For now the faithful remain at their posts: phones face-down, candles face-down, spirits to match. They will tell you, unprompted, that they are neither early nor late but exactly on schedule for the bottom — which is, they insist, due any minute now.
This newspaper regrets that it cannot, at this hour, offer its readers good news. It looked. It sent a reporter. The reporter has not returned, though a single red candle was later recovered from his desk, still faintly warm to the touch.
Subscriptions remain free, as does the despair. Readers wishing to cancel are reminded that there is nowhere else to go: every other paper is running the same front page in green, and lying about it. We, at least, will tell you the truth and let you smoke indoors.
We're not here to make it. We're here to cope, together. Down bad. Never alone. Cont'd on every page, forever.
