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For much of my life, I thought of suffering as something like weather. It arrived from somewhere outside me, often without much warning. There was not necessarily anything to do with it. You prepared as best you could, endured whatever came, and waited for the sky to clear. Anxiety could work this way. Depression could work this way. So could the obsessive replay of something that had happened already, or the anticipation of something that might happen and could not yet be influenced. The experience was not only painful in itself. Part of what made it painful was the sense that I was being acted upon. Suffering was a hurricane, and I was the house.

Over the last few years, though, something in that relationship has changed. The strange part is that the change has coincided with my deliberately introducing more pain into my life. I lift weights almost every day. I run a lot. Since getting rid of my car in late March, I have made walking, running, biking and public transit the machinery of ordinary mobility, sometimes adding a cargo wagon when I need to move more than my back can sensibly carry. There are now many more occasions on which my legs ache, my lungs burn, my muscles reach the point where they would strongly prefer that I stop, or I discover that the place I need to reach is inconveniently several miles away.

And yet I suffer less.

That sounds contradictory until I distinguish pain from suffering. The discomfort of a long run is perfectly real. So is the final repetition of a difficult set. There are moments when every physiological signal available to consciousness seems to be voting for rest. But those sensations do not feel anything like the old experience of psychological suffering. They can even feel life-giving while they are unpleasant. There is an odd simultaneity to strenuous exercise: I can want the hill to end while also being glad that I am climbing it. I can experience something that hurts without experiencing it as something bad.

Примерно месяц назад я начал слушать The Joe Rogan Experience.

Каким-то образом за всё время существования этого подкаста я так толком его и не слушал. Начал с нескольких недавних выпусков, они мне вполне понравились, а потом я решил сделать нечто слегка неразумное: вернуться к самому началу.

Так что в последнее время я слушаю выпуски, записанные примерно в конце 2009-го и начале 2010 года.

Тогда я учился в девятом классе.

И самое странное — насколько небольшой иногда кажется мне дистанция между тем миром и нынешним.

Кто-нибудь упоминает фильм, музыканта, телешоу, знаменитость, какую-нибудь странную историю из новостей — и я тут же это вспоминаю. Причём не только саму вещь или событие. Я вспоминаю, как мы об этом говорили.

Я помню разговоры в школьных коридорах, за обедом, после уроков, в интернете. Помню, что думали мои друзья. Помню шутки, родившиеся из вещей, которые видели все. Помню споры о музыке, фильмах и обо всём, что происходило на той неделе.

Я не осознавал, насколько значительная часть моих воспоминаний о том времени состоит из разговоров о чём-то.

А слушая эти старые выпуски, я понял ещё одну вещь:

Таких разговоров у меня теперь почти не бывает.

Не потому, что поп-культура исчезла.

Возможно, сегодня нам доступно больше культуры, чем когда-либо прежде в истории человечества. Больше фильмов, сериалов, музыкантов, подкастов, писателей, видео и вообще вещей, которым можно уделять внимание, чем любой человек способен потребить за всю жизнь.

В том, какое место Луи Армстронг занимает в американской культуре, есть нечто немного странное.

Армстронг вышел из музыкального мира, который сегодня кажется почти археологической древностью: новоорлеанские духовые оркестры, регтайм, блюз, водевиль, речные пароходы, традиции маршевых оркестров и коллективная импровизация самого раннего джаза. Его наставником был Джо «Кинг» Оливер (Joe “King” Oliver). Он записывался с такими музыкантами, как Кид Ори (Kid Ory) и Джонни Доддс (Johnny Dodds). Джелли Ролл Мортон (Jelly Roll Morton) и Сидни Беше (Sidney Bechet) принадлежали примерно к тому же поколению первопроходцев.

Но Армстронг каким-то образом продолжал свой путь.

И дело не просто в том, что он продолжал работать. Он оставался знаменитым.

В 1950-е он снимался в кино и появлялся на телевидении. В 1964 году, когда ему было 62, его запись "Hello, Dolly!" возглавила американский поп-чарт, на время потеснив Beatles в разгар битломании. Три года спустя он записал "What a Wonderful World" — песню, которую сегодня многие слушатели узнают скорее, чем любую из его революционных джазовых записей 1920-х.

Отсюда возникает любопытный исторический вопрос.

Почему именно Армстронг?

Почему один музыкант из той первозданной культуры новоорлеанского джаза сумел проникнуть в американскую массовую культуру гораздо глубже почти всех остальных, кто из неё вышел?

Армстронг не был буквально последним из живых представителей раннего джаза. Некоторые его современники прожили почти столько же или даже дольше. И он был не единственным поразительным музыкантом, которого породила эта культура. Но, похоже, ему удалось нечто более редкое: он не остался в границах собственной исторической эпохи.

Suppose two events happen far apart.

At event A, a detector clicks. At event B, another detector clicks somewhere else.

One observer says A happened first.

Another observer, moving relative to the first, says B happened first.

Neither observer made a mistake.

That sounds dangerous. If relativity allows people to disagree about which event came first, what stops one observer from seeing an effect occur before its cause?

The answer is that relativity does not treat every pair of events the same way.

For events that could causally influence each other, their order is protected. For events that are spacelike-separated, their order does not have to be.

That is not a loophole in causality. It is part of the structure that preserves it.

1. Begin Outside the Light Cone

Imagine events A and B on a spacetime diagram.

They are separated by enough distance, and little enough time, that even light could not travel from one to the other before both have occurred.

In other words, they are spacelike-separated.

Neither event can have caused the other. A light signal leaving A would reach B's location too late. A light signal leaving B would likewise reach A's location too late.

The light cone already tells us that much.

But now ask a different question:

Which event happened first?

It is tempting to assume that the universe must contain one correct answer, even if the two events cannot affect each other.

Special relativity says otherwise.

Imagine a car company with an unusual product strategy: it makes one car.

Not one car at a time, or one car until the next model year. One car, as a continuing design. The company improves individual components when technology advances, but it treats the underlying vehicle almost as an industrial standard rather than a fashion product. A door made fifteen years from now still fits the mounting points on a car built today. Suspension assemblies can be replaced without redesigning half the vehicle. Body panels are available individually. Engines, motors, batteries, computers, seats, lights, switches, and interior pieces can be removed and replaced without turning a repair into an archaeological expedition through discontinued part numbers. Technical documentation is public. Independent companies are encouraged to manufacture compatible components. Junkyards accumulate an enormous supply of interchangeable originals. Owners learn the architecture because the architecture stays put.

The result would be something like the automotive equivalent of the Fender Stratocaster. A Stratocaster made today is not literally the same object Fender sold in 1954, and musicians have spent seventy years changing pickups, bridges, necks, electronics, finishes, and virtually everything else attached to it. Yet the basic design has become less a particular year's product than a durable platform. Its longevity creates its own ecosystem. Parts manufacturers can confidently build for it; repair knowledge accumulates instead of expiring; secondhand components remain useful; and an old instrument need not become technologically orphaned simply because its manufacturer would prefer to sell another one.

For much of my life, I thought of suffering as something like weather. It arrived from somewhere outside me, often without much warning. There was not necessarily anything to do with it. You prepared as best you could, endured whatever came, and waited for the sky to clear. Anxiety could work this way. Depression could work this way. So could the obsessive replay of something that had happened already, or the anticipation of something that might happen and could not yet be influenced. The experience was not only painful in itself. Part of what made it painful was the sense that I was being acted upon. Suffering was a hurricane, and I was the house.

Over the last few years, though, something in that relationship has changed. The strange part is that the change has coincided with my deliberately introducing more pain into my life. I lift weights almost every day. I run a lot. Since getting rid of my car in late March, I have made walking, running, biking and public transit the machinery of ordinary mobility, sometimes adding a cargo wagon when I need to move more than my back can sensibly carry. There are now many more occasions on which my legs ache, my lungs burn, my muscles reach the point where they would strongly prefer that I stop, or I discover that the place I need to reach is inconveniently several miles away.

And yet I suffer less.

That sounds contradictory until I distinguish pain from suffering. The discomfort of a long run is perfectly real. So is the final repetition of a difficult set. There are moments when every physiological signal available to consciousness seems to be voting for rest. But those sensations do not feel anything like the old experience of psychological suffering. They can even feel life-giving while they are unpleasant. There is an odd simultaneity to strenuous exercise: I can want the hill to end while also being glad that I am climbing it. I can experience something that hurts without experiencing it as something bad.

Примерно месяц назад я начал слушать The Joe Rogan Experience.

Каким-то образом за всё время существования этого подкаста я так толком его и не слушал. Начал с нескольких недавних выпусков, они мне вполне понравились, а потом я решил сделать нечто слегка неразумное: вернуться к самому началу.

Так что в последнее время я слушаю выпуски, записанные примерно в конце 2009-го и начале 2010 года.

Тогда я учился в девятом классе.

И самое странное — насколько небольшой иногда кажется мне дистанция между тем миром и нынешним.

Кто-нибудь упоминает фильм, музыканта, телешоу, знаменитость, какую-нибудь странную историю из новостей — и я тут же это вспоминаю. Причём не только саму вещь или событие. Я вспоминаю, как мы об этом говорили.

Я помню разговоры в школьных коридорах, за обедом, после уроков, в интернете. Помню, что думали мои друзья. Помню шутки, родившиеся из вещей, которые видели все. Помню споры о музыке, фильмах и обо всём, что происходило на той неделе.

Я не осознавал, насколько значительная часть моих воспоминаний о том времени состоит из разговоров о чём-то.

А слушая эти старые выпуски, я понял ещё одну вещь:

Таких разговоров у меня теперь почти не бывает.

Не потому, что поп-культура исчезла.

Возможно, сегодня нам доступно больше культуры, чем когда-либо прежде в истории человечества. Больше фильмов, сериалов, музыкантов, подкастов, писателей, видео и вообще вещей, которым можно уделять внимание, чем любой человек способен потребить за всю жизнь.

В том, какое место Луи Армстронг занимает в американской культуре, есть нечто немного странное.

Армстронг вышел из музыкального мира, который сегодня кажется почти археологической древностью: новоорлеанские духовые оркестры, регтайм, блюз, водевиль, речные пароходы, традиции маршевых оркестров и коллективная импровизация самого раннего джаза. Его наставником был Джо «Кинг» Оливер (Joe “King” Oliver). Он записывался с такими музыкантами, как Кид Ори (Kid Ory) и Джонни Доддс (Johnny Dodds). Джелли Ролл Мортон (Jelly Roll Morton) и Сидни Беше (Sidney Bechet) принадлежали примерно к тому же поколению первопроходцев.

Но Армстронг каким-то образом продолжал свой путь.

И дело не просто в том, что он продолжал работать. Он оставался знаменитым.

В 1950-е он снимался в кино и появлялся на телевидении. В 1964 году, когда ему было 62, его запись "Hello, Dolly!" возглавила американский поп-чарт, на время потеснив Beatles в разгар битломании. Три года спустя он записал "What a Wonderful World" — песню, которую сегодня многие слушатели узнают скорее, чем любую из его революционных джазовых записей 1920-х.

Отсюда возникает любопытный исторический вопрос.

Почему именно Армстронг?

Почему один музыкант из той первозданной культуры новоорлеанского джаза сумел проникнуть в американскую массовую культуру гораздо глубже почти всех остальных, кто из неё вышел?

Армстронг не был буквально последним из живых представителей раннего джаза. Некоторые его современники прожили почти столько же или даже дольше. И он был не единственным поразительным музыкантом, которого породила эта культура. Но, похоже, ему удалось нечто более редкое: он не остался в границах собственной исторической эпохи.

Suppose two events happen far apart.

At event A, a detector clicks. At event B, another detector clicks somewhere else.

One observer says A happened first.

Another observer, moving relative to the first, says B happened first.

Neither observer made a mistake.

That sounds dangerous. If relativity allows people to disagree about which event came first, what stops one observer from seeing an effect occur before its cause?

The answer is that relativity does not treat every pair of events the same way.

For events that could causally influence each other, their order is protected. For events that are spacelike-separated, their order does not have to be.

That is not a loophole in causality. It is part of the structure that preserves it.

1. Begin Outside the Light Cone

Imagine events A and B on a spacetime diagram.

They are separated by enough distance, and little enough time, that even light could not travel from one to the other before both have occurred.

In other words, they are spacelike-separated.

Neither event can have caused the other. A light signal leaving A would reach B's location too late. A light signal leaving B would likewise reach A's location too late.

The light cone already tells us that much.

But now ask a different question:

Which event happened first?

It is tempting to assume that the universe must contain one correct answer, even if the two events cannot affect each other.

Special relativity says otherwise.

Imagine a car company with an unusual product strategy: it makes one car.

Not one car at a time, or one car until the next model year. One car, as a continuing design. The company improves individual components when technology advances, but it treats the underlying vehicle almost as an industrial standard rather than a fashion product. A door made fifteen years from now still fits the mounting points on a car built today. Suspension assemblies can be replaced without redesigning half the vehicle. Body panels are available individually. Engines, motors, batteries, computers, seats, lights, switches, and interior pieces can be removed and replaced without turning a repair into an archaeological expedition through discontinued part numbers. Technical documentation is public. Independent companies are encouraged to manufacture compatible components. Junkyards accumulate an enormous supply of interchangeable originals. Owners learn the architecture because the architecture stays put.

The result would be something like the automotive equivalent of the Fender Stratocaster. A Stratocaster made today is not literally the same object Fender sold in 1954, and musicians have spent seventy years changing pickups, bridges, necks, electronics, finishes, and virtually everything else attached to it. Yet the basic design has become less a particular year's product than a durable platform. Its longevity creates its own ecosystem. Parts manufacturers can confidently build for it; repair knowledge accumulates instead of expiring; secondhand components remain useful; and an old instrument need not become technologically orphaned simply because its manufacturer would prefer to sell another one.

If you have checked a retirement account recently, it may feel as though something changed abruptly.

That impression is real, although the timeline is slightly deceptive. August 2026 was actually a strong month for American stocks: according to Nasdaq's August market review, the S&P 500 rose 2.7 percent and the Nasdaq-100 gained 4.2 percent, their strongest August performances since 2021.

Even after September's turbulence, the broader picture is not one of a market in collapse. As of September 18, the S&P 500 remained more than 11 percent higher for 2026 and only about 2 percent below the record high it reached in mid-August.

What changed was the atmosphere.

Several forces that had been simmering in the background began reinforcing one another: oil prices climbed, inflation worries returned, Treasury yields rose, the Federal Reserve increased interest rates, and investors became less comfortable paying high prices for future corporate growth.

September 2026 at a glance

S&P 500: still more than 11% higher in 2026, but roughly 2% below its August record
August S&P 500 return: +2.7%
August Nasdaq-100 return: +4.2%
Brent crude: roughly \$100–\$110 per barrel during September's surge
10-year U.S. Treasury yield: around 5%
Federal funds target: 3.75–4.00% after the September 16 rate increase
August CPI inflation: 3.4% year over year
Federal Reserve 2026 PCE inflation projection: 3.7%

Taken together, these numbers tell much of the story: the stock market itself is still relatively strong, but the economic environment surrounding it has become noticeably less forgiving.

There is something peculiar about listening to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot with the dates in mind. Wilco recorded the album largely before September 11, 2001, and delivered it to Reprise in the middle of that year. Yet when the record finally received its conventional release in April 2002, it seemed uncannily suited to the world in which it arrived. Songs were filled with damaged communication, weary affection, American imagery, mechanical interference and moments of almost casual dread. “Jesus, Etc.” contained images of shaking tall buildings and escaping voices. Another song was called “Ashes of American Flags.” The album itself ended with a mysterious radio voice repeating the words “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” through a growing wall of noise. None of this was written in response to September 11, yet after September 11 it became nearly impossible for listeners not to hear at least some of it through that experience. Contemporary and retrospective criticism alike noticed the effect. The catastrophe seemed to have placed a new frame around music that already existed.

It is tempting, for that reason, to treat Yankee Hotel Foxtrot as a prophetic record: an album that somehow sensed what was about to happen. But prophecy is probably the least interesting explanation for what makes it feel so historically charged. Wilco did not anticipate the attacks, and some of the album’s supposedly ominous imagery becomes much less mysterious once the chronology is restored. The better question is why music created before the rupture sounded so natural after it. That question points beyond coincidence and into the cultural atmosphere from which the album emerged. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was made during a period when several transformations were already underway at once: the high confidence of the late 1990s had begun to coexist with increasingly visible unease; rock musicians were pulling familiar songwriting forms apart with noise, electronics and studio manipulation; analog and digital recording technologies were overlapping; and the old record-industry machinery was beginning to collide with a new world in which music could circulate through the Internet whether labels understood the implications or not. September 11 did not create all of those tensions. It made some of them suddenly easier to see.

Два наблюдателя следят за одной и той же парой событий. Оба согласны с тем, что события произошли, но могут приписывать им разные расстояния и разные промежутки времени.

На первый взгляд это кажется проблемой. Если один наблюдатель измеряет одно расстояние, а другой — другое, как они всё же могут соглашаться в том, что события разделены времениподобным, светоподобным или пространственноподобным интервалом?

Дело в том, что теория относительности не сохраняет пространство и время как две отдельные величины. Она сохраняет их определённую комбинацию: интервал пространства-времени.

Если геометрическая картина пока непривычна, полезной отправной точкой будет статья Световые конусы: что на что может влиять в пространстве-времени?. Световой конус располагает события внутри своей границы, на ней или за её пределами. Интервал пространства-времени позволяет получить ту же классификацию расчётом, без обращения к диаграмме.

Пространство и время меняются вместе

Рассмотрим два события, \(A\) и \(B\). В одной инерциальной системе отсчёта различия их координат равны

$$ \Delta t = t_B-t_A $$

и

$$ \Delta x = x_B-x_A. $$

Другой наблюдатель, движущийся с постоянной скоростью относительно первого, может получить другие значения как для \(\Delta t\), так и для \(\Delta x\). Ни одна из этих величин сама по себе не одинакова для всех инерциальных наблюдателей.

Но меняются они не произвольно. Когда движение наблюдателя изменяет измеренное расстояние между событиями, измеренный промежуток времени меняется вместе с ним вполне определённым образом. Именно эту взаимосвязь и выражает интервал пространства-времени.

Представьте, что прибор в одном месте испускает сигнал. Через две секунды станция, находящаяся далеко от него, регистрирует тревогу.

Могло ли первое событие стать причиной второго?

Ответ нельзя получить просто из слов раньше и позже. Всё зависит от того, насколько далеко друг от друга произошли события, сколько времени их разделяет и могло ли какое-либо воздействие успеть преодолеть это расстояние. Теория относительности даёт нам диаграмму, которая позволяет ответить именно на этот вопрос: световой конус.

Световой конус часто представляют как наглядное изображение правила, согласно которому ничто не может двигаться быстрее света. Это верно, но такой подход расставляет акценты не совсем там, где нужно. Более глубокий смысл этой диаграммы в том, что она показывает, какие события могут быть причинно связаны. Скорость света важна потому, что она задаёт границу возможного воздействия.

1. Начнём с одного события

В теории относительности событие — это нечто, происходящее в определённом месте и в определённый момент времени: сработал детектор, зажглась лампа, пришло сообщение. Построение диаграммы светового конуса начинается с выбора одного такого события в качестве точки отсчёта.

Теперь представим, что в этот момент испускается вспышка света. С течением времени свет распространяется наружу во всех пространственных направлениях. В обычном трёхмерном пространстве расширяющийся волновой фронт имел бы форму сферы.

In an earlier essay, I proposed a political bargain that I called Universal Security Capitalism: guarantee a basic floor beneath every person, while leaving the economic ceiling completely open. Nobody should be ruined by illness, hunger, homelessness, or temporary economic failure, but neither should extraordinary wealth be treated as intrinsically objectionable. A person who builds a company worth ten billion dollars and a person who earns very little while repairing old radios, writing novels, studying insects, or playing obscure music should both be permitted to pursue their own ideas of a worthwhile life.

I still find much of that argument compelling. What has become less clear to me is whether I properly understood the principle beneath it.

At first glance, guaranteeing healthcare, food, housing, and some basic level of income sounds like a proposal about economic equality. Yet equality was never really the part that interested me. I do not particularly care whether one person possesses a thousand times as much money as another, provided that wealth was acquired through legitimate exchange rather than fraud, monopoly, regulatory capture, or some other mechanism that prevents meaningful competition. Nor do I think a society becomes just merely because its citizens occupy narrower positions on an income distribution.

The concern that motivated the original proposal was different. I was interested in what people are actually free to do with their lives.

Political labels are supposed to simplify. They allow people to summarize complicated views, identify broad alliances, and describe conflicts without beginning every conversation from first principles. Yet the same labels can also conceal important distinctions. In contemporary American discourse, liberal, classical liberal, libertarian, progressive, and conservative are often spoken of as though they name five positions on a single line. They do not. Some name intellectual traditions, some describe attitudes toward political change, and some function mainly as shorthand for present-day electoral coalitions. Even when two terms overlap in practice, they may be answering different questions.

The resulting confusion is not merely a problem of careless usage. Political vocabulary accumulates meanings as societies change. An idea that begins as a challenge to an established order may later become part of the order that conservatives seek to preserve. A philosophy associated with limited government in one century may develop a branch that regards public action as necessary to secure meaningful liberty in another. A term may also retain one meaning in political philosophy while acquiring a narrower or more partisan meaning in everyday American speech.

The clearest way to approach these words, therefore, is not to search for one perfectly correct definition of each. It is to distinguish their historical and colloquial meanings, identify the political questions they emphasize, and treat their boundaries as permeable. Once that is done, the apparent contradictions begin to dissolve.

For most of my life, I thought writing meant choosing the words.

Not merely having an idea and communicating it successfully, but deciding exactly how one sentence should lead into another. Whether this word was better than that one. Whether a paragraph needed one more sentence or one fewer. Whether some thought sounded too formal, too blunt, too sentimental, too vague.

I cared about these things partly because I was lucky enough to begin reading seriously when I was young, and partly because I had English teachers who made writing feel like something worth taking seriously.

Language wasn't just packaging for thought. The packaging was part of the thought.

That makes my current writing process slightly strange.

These days, I often begin with the ideas and outsource much of the composition.

I explain what I am thinking to an artificial intelligence. I describe the argument, the uncertainty, the examples, the tone I am after, the things I do and do not want the piece to say. Then I get back a draft.

I read it.

And surprisingly often, my reaction is simply:

Yes. That's basically it.

Maybe I change some things. Maybe I push back against a sentence that goes too far or ask for a section to be reworked. But if the words adequately represent the structure that was already in my head, I increasingly feel little compulsion to replace them merely so that I can say I personally typed every sentence.

Open Terminal on a Mac and the machine suddenly starts speaking a language familiar to almost anyone who has spent time with Linux.

There is ls.

There is grep.

There is ssh.

There are Unix-style permissions, processes, pipes, signals, sockets, shells, and paths beginning at /.

You can compile C code, start an SSH session, manipulate files with command-line utilities, run servers, and use many of the same development tools you would expect to find on a Linux machine.

Then close Terminal.

The resemblance seems to disappear.

You are back in macOS, with Finder, the Dock, Spotlight, AppKit, Swift, Metal, APFS, Apple Silicon, iCloud, and an operating system whose design and software ecosystem remain unmistakably Apple's.

This creates an interesting historical question.

If Apple transformed the Mac into a Unix system around the turn of the century, why did the Mac not gradually converge with Linux?

Why did two operating systems with so much low-level common ground remain so obviously separate?

The answer begins with an important correction to the question itself.

Apple did not originally set out to turn the Mac into Unix.

Apple set out to save the Mac.

The operating system underneath the original Macintosh was getting old

The original Macintosh appeared in 1984.

Its operating system was built for a very different kind of computer from the machines that would exist a decade later. The first Macintosh had 128 kilobytes of memory. It was designed as a personal computer for one person sitting in front of one machine, running a relatively small collection of programs.

Myriad Genetics has something many distressed companies do not:

a real business with established products, recognized clinical franchises, and potentially valuable newer technologies.

That is what makes the investment case interesting.

The problem is that those assets are currently sitting inside a company with shrinking revenue, persistent losses, cash burn, and a business model that has not yet demonstrated a clear path back to sustainable profitability.

In other words, this is not a conventional growth thesis.

It is a recovery thesis.

And recovery theses require a higher burden of proof.

This is a snapshot of that thesis as it stands in September 2026.

It is not a recommendation to buy or sell Myriad Genetics shares.

It is an attempt to define what would have to improve, what could create upside, and what developments would signal that the thesis is breaking rather than recovering.

At a Glance

Company: Myriad Genetics
Ticker: MYGN
Thesis type: Distressed recovery / diagnostics / strategic optionality
Snapshot date: September 2026

Why it may be interesting:
Myriad owns established molecular-diagnostics franchises and newer oncology products with potential long-term value. At a heavily depressed valuation, stabilization of revenue and a credible path toward profitability could create substantial upside.

What the market may be underestimating:
The value of Myriad's stronger Cancer Care Continuum franchise, newer tests such as Precise MRD and Prolaris + AI, intellectual property, and potential strategic value if the company restructures or reallocates capital more effectively.

Ardent Health is not an obvious growth stock.

It operates hospitals, clinics, specialty-care centers, and other healthcare facilities across a collection of mid-sized U.S. markets.

That means the investment case depends less on a single product breakthrough and more on something quieter:

Can Ardent steadily improve the economics of delivering healthcare across its existing network?

The answer is not yet obvious.

In 2026, adjusted admissions have continued growing. Cash generation has been strong. Leverage remains manageable. Management has also expanded its cost-savings program and continued investing in new facilities and specialty-care capacity.

At the same time, raw admissions and surgeries have softened, reimbursement per adjusted admission has come under pressure, and quarterly earnings have been uneven.

This is a snapshot of that thesis as it stands in September 2026.

It is not a recommendation to buy or sell Ardent Health shares.

It is an attempt to define what would need to improve, and what would have to deteriorate, for the investment thesis to become stronger or weaker.

At a Glance

Company: Ardent Health
Ticker: ARDT
Thesis type: Operational improvement / healthcare utilization / prove-it
Snapshot date: September 2026

Why it may be interesting:
Ardent is generating strong operating cash flow, maintaining relatively modest leverage, and growing adjusted admissions even while some underlying patient-volume measures remain soft. If operational improvements translate into more consistent earnings, the current valuation could prove attractive.

Mativ Holdings is not an obvious growth story.

It is a specialty-materials company formed in 2022 through the combination of SWM and Neenah, with businesses spanning filtration, engineered films, adhesives, release liners, healthcare materials, packaging, and other industrial applications.

The interesting part of the investment case is not that sales are suddenly exploding.

They are not.

The more interesting question is whether Mativ is becoming a substantially better business while operating with roughly the same revenue base.

In 2026, margins have improved sharply. Free cash flow has strengthened. Debt has started moving downward. And management appears to be extracting more economic value from a complicated collection of businesses assembled through merger and restructuring.

This is a snapshot of that thesis as it stands in September 2026.

It is not a recommendation to buy or sell Mativ shares.

It is an attempt to define what would have to keep improving, and what would have to go wrong, for the turnaround thesis to hold together.

At a Glance

Company: Mativ Holdings
Ticker: MATV
Thesis type: Turnaround / margin expansion / deleveraging
Snapshot date: September 2026

Why it may be interesting:
Mativ has shown two consecutive quarters of sharply improving adjusted EBITDA margins despite little overall revenue growth. If stronger operating efficiency continues producing free cash flow and debt reduction, the equity could benefit disproportionately.

Cenovus Energy is not an obscure speculative oil company.

It is a large integrated Canadian energy producer with upstream oil and gas operations, refining assets, and, after its acquisition of MEG Energy, an even larger footprint in the Canadian oil sands.

That makes the investment question more interesting than simply asking whether oil prices will go up.

The more useful question is whether Cenovus is entering a period in which stronger production, lower costs, acquisition synergies, and falling debt can steadily translate into greater value for shareholders.

This is a snapshot of that thesis as it stands in September 2026.

It is not a recommendation to buy or sell Cenovus shares.

It is an attempt to define what would have to go right, and what would have to go wrong, for the current investment thesis to hold up.

At a Glance

Company: Cenovus Energy
Ticker: CVE
Thesis type: Deleveraging / operational improvement
Snapshot date: September 2026

Why it may be interesting:
Cenovus is combining strong oil-sands production, lower operating costs, MEG integration synergies, and rapid debt reduction. If those trends persist, more future cash flow could shift from deleveraging toward shareholder returns.

What the market may be underestimating:
The combined impact of higher production, lower unit costs, acquisition synergies, and a cleaner balance sheet.

What would strengthen the thesis:

• Net debt continues falling

Drive across northern or western Iowa and one feature of the landscape becomes hard to miss.

There are cornfields, grain elevators, small towns, long straight roads, and, increasingly, enormous white wind turbines turning above all of it.

That would not be especially surprising in a state known for aggressive climate politics.

Iowa is not such a state.

Donald Trump won 55.7 percent of Iowa's presidential vote in 2024. Republicans currently hold large majorities in both chambers of the state legislature. Iowa has moved decisively toward the Republican Party over the past decade. (Iowa Secretary of State)

And yet, in 2024, 62.84 percent of all electricity generated in Iowa came from wind.

Coal supplied about 21 percent. Natural gas supplied about 14 percent.

Wind was not a boutique supplement to Iowa's electrical system. It was the system's dominant source of generation. (Iowa Utilities Commission)

At first glance, there seems to be a political contradiction here.

Renewable energy has become entangled with climate politics in the United States, and climate politics has become sharply partisan. One might therefore expect the country's most wind-dependent states to resemble the country's most environmentally progressive states.

But Iowa suggests that this is the wrong way to think about it.

The more interesting question is not why a Republican state somehow tolerates wind power.

It is how wind power became useful enough that tolerating it ceased to be the point.

I have been watching videos lately from a young woman who travels around Russia.

She goes to places I would like to see myself someday: Siberia, Lake Baikal, the Ural Mountains. Her videos are quiet and beautiful. There are trains, snowy roads, apartments, forests, meals, conversations, long stretches of landscape.

What struck me most recently, though, was something almost completely unrelated to the scenery.

She cannot monetize the videos.

Google deactivated Russia-based AdSense accounts in August 2024, and YouTube still says that creators with Russia-based AdSense accounts cannot monetize their channels. The restriction is one of a long series of measures connected to Russia's invasion of Ukraine.

That makes sense at the level where we usually discuss international affairs.

Russia invaded Ukraine. Other countries and international companies responded. Sanctions and restrictions followed.

But then the abstraction travels downward.

Eventually it reaches somebody filming Lake Baikal.

That is where the situation starts to feel different.

A Country and the People Inside It

It is easy to talk about countries as though they were people.

Russia invaded.

America threatened.

China wants.

France objects.

Iran retaliates.

We do this because it is useful shorthand. Governments really do act on behalf of states, and those actions have consequences.

But nations contain millions of people who may have had almost nothing to do with those decisions.

The farther west you travel from Chicago, the less obvious it becomes where Chicagoland actually ends.

The city does not simply stop. Suburbs thin out. Housing developments become islands. The spaces between them widen. Decorative streetlights give way to utility poles, and then, almost without announcement, the landscape belongs to corn.

That makes DeKalb County, Illinois an interesting place for a random Street View road trip.

It sits about 63 miles west of Chicago, covers roughly 633 square miles, and had an estimated population of about 102,000 in 2025. DeKalb and Sycamore provide the county's main urban centers, Northern Illinois University brings a sizable college presence, and yet enormous portions of the county remain unmistakably agricultural.

The DeKalb County History Center describes agriculture as one of the defining threads of the county's history, and that becomes obvious almost immediately on Street View.

But there was something else I kept noticing.

The countryside here did not look especially rough.

It looked organized.

Maybe I had simply stumbled onto an unusually tidy collection of roads, but scene after scene had the same peculiar quality: trimmed lawns, clean gravel drives, bright barns, sharply defined fields, buildings that looked freshly cared for. Coming from central North Carolina, where rural landscapes often feel looser and more accumulated over time, I found the contrast striking.

Shira would usually rather stay home.

Sumi has already made plans for everyone.

Freya has found a way to measure the results.

Somehow, they are still friends.

Shira, Sumi, and Freya keep ending up in places none of them quite expected: beaches, restaurant kitchens, vintage-media fairs, competitions, trips, and eventually perhaps a few places considerably stranger than those.

The stories can be read individually, but they also build on one another. If you’re new to the three of them, publication order is the best place to start.

The Friends

Shira

Shira likes black clothes, old technology, AFI, and situations in which nobody expects her to participate.

She carries an old iPod, keeps her smartphone monochrome, and has a well-developed instinct for finding the objectionable part of any cheerful group activity. She is also usually the first person to notice when someone else is scared, embarrassed, or being overlooked.

She would prefer that this last fact not become a topic of discussion.

Sumi

Sumi does not so much invite people places as inform them where everyone is going.

She is cheerful, impulsive, almost completely without a filter, and an astonishing cook. Unfortunately for Freya, Sumi does not consider extraordinary culinary talent evidence that she should immediately establish a restaurant group.

Unfortunately for Sumi, Freya does.

Freya

Freya is training to become an elite rower and approaches everyday life with the troubling suspicion that most things could be improved with timing data.

This morning I got a message on Duolingo.

It was from a woman I’ve been mutuals with for about a year—one of those quiet, low-stakes connections where you’ve been reacting to each other’s achievements for months and keeping your streaks alive in parallel.

It was short. It was in Vietnamese. I didn’t understand it at first.

So I translated it.

It said: “Would you be my boyfriend?”

On paper, that’s nothing. A sentence. A throwaway flirt. The kind of thing that should bounce off you and disappear into the scroll of the internet.

But it didn’t.

I felt my heart kick up in a way that honestly surprised me. Not because I suddenly believed I’d met The One through a language-learning app, but because something small and human had reached out and touched me in a place I didn’t realize was that hungry.

I responded with a boundary that kept it light: something like, “On Duolingo? Sure — study boyfriend.”

I didn’t promise anything real-world. I didn’t move the conversation off-platform. I didn’t try to turn it into a story bigger than what it was. I just let it be what it was: a tiny thread of warmth between two near-strangers who share the same weird daily habit of showing up to learn.

And that was the part that felt important.

Because the effect wasn’t created by a lot of words. It wasn’t created by intimacy. It wasn’t created by plans, or photos, or a long getting-to-know-you arc.

It was created by the knowledge that there was a real human nervous system on the other side.

I took these photos on a short walk near my house in East Durham. Nothing heroic. No grand mission. Just… me trying to remember that making pictures can be fun again.

It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Partly because the vibe out in public has felt more tense—like everyone is bracing for something, and everyone is watching everyone. Since the ICE raids started around here, that background hum of suspicion feels louder. And even beyond that: smartphones kind of flooded the world with “photography,” and somehow the magic got diluted. Not because the camera got worse—because the social feeling around taking pictures got heavier. Like you’re always one misunderstanding away from a weird moment.

But I miss the old feeling.

I used to shoot a lot of analog—mostly with a Zorki (my scrappy Soviet Leica clone) and a plastic Holga that could turn a normal scene into a dream with one light leak. I’m not using them right now because film + development costs have gotten steep. So yeah: I’m using an emulator app on my phone. And honestly? It gets you surprisingly close to the spark.

The point wasn’t to overthink, or to “capture” anything important. The point was to shoot from the hip—give myself permission to walk, notice, and press the shutter without asking the world for approval first.

If you feel that same tension—paranoia, self-consciousness, the “what will people think?” loop—this is your reminder: you can take a short walk and make art anyway. Even if the feeling doesn’t fully go away… you can still come back with something real.

I. Introduction — How “Free Speech” Became a Side to Root For

If you only learned about free speech from American politics in the last 25 years, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s a partisan brand rather than a constitutional principle. One election cycle, free speech is a conservative rallying cry against “cancel culture” and “Big Tech censorship.” Another cycle, it’s a progressive slogan against government surveillance, bans on books, or gag orders on teachers. The banners keep changing color, but free speech is supposed to live in the rulebook, not on one side’s uniform.

Underneath those shifting slogans, though, something quieter has been happening. Both major parties have grown increasingly comfortable with the idea that certain kinds of speech are too dangerous, too destabilizing, or simply too offensive to tolerate. What changes is not the impulse to restrict, but the justification: national security, public safety, preventing harm, fighting disinformation, protecting children, defending democracy. The list changes, but the move is the same: carve out one more exception when speech cuts against your own side.

The irony is that the legal First Amendment regime in the United States remains, historically speaking, very strong. Supreme Court cases like Cohen v. California—the one that protected a guy wearing a jacket that said “Fuck the Draft” in a courthouse corridor—are still the background law of the land. In that case, the Court held that the state could not punish him just for a four-letter word that offended people; offense alone was not a sufficient reason to criminalize speech. (Legal note: Cohen v. California, 403 U.S. 15 (1971).)

I. Two Ways to Answer the Same Hunger

In many cities, the same question is being asked in very different ways:

If a society is structured in a way that leaves people hungry while food is thrown away, what counts as a moral response?

One answer says: steal. If the system itself is based on exploitation, then taking from large corporations—especially when they discard surplus goods anyway—can be framed as a small act of justice. Under this view, shoplifting from big-box stores or supermarket chains becomes a kind of micro-reparation: a way of clawing back value from an economic order that was rigged from the start.

Another answer says: build parallel systems. Instead of sneaking goods past the scanner, ordinary workers and volunteers quietly organize an alternative supply chain: surplus food is reclaimed with permission, rerouted into a mutual-aid network, and distributed for free from a folding table in the middle of the city. No questions asked, one bag per person, no money accepted.

Both approaches are trying to address the same reality: people are hungry in a world of abundance, and much of that abundance is controlled by institutions whose priorities are profit, not care. But they make fundamentally different bets about how to change that reality, and at what cost.

This essay looks at those two paths side by side. It does not deny the anger that fuels the first. It simply asks a harder question: Which underground do we actually want to grow?

The Pocket Cosmos  

A Special Dispatch on the Coming Smartphone  

Filed for December 1999 from the not-too-distant future

Imagine a device about the size of a deck of cards.

It fits in your pocket.  

It weighs less than a paperback.  

Its front is almost entirely made of glass.

Tap that glass, and you can:

• call anyone in the world  
• send them a message  
• look up a word in any major language  
• check a street map for a city you’ve never visited  
• read today’s headlines from five different countries  
• listen to almost any song that has ever been recorded  
• take a photograph and send it instantly across an ocean  

This device is real. It is coming. And very soon, almost everyone you know will carry one.

We will call it the smartphone.

---

A Library Without Walls

To understand what the smartphone represents, start with the most familiar tool of the serious mind: the library.

Today, in 1999, reaching serious knowledge requires movement. You go to the stacks. You search a card catalog (or, if you’re lucky, a web terminal on a shared computer). You wait for interlibrary loans. Information lives in buildings, on shelves, in limited copies.

The smartphone dissolves that geography.

Inside this small object is a permanent, portable ticket into something larger than any single library: a networked collection of encyclopedias, dictionaries, textbooks, lecture notes, research summaries, and how-to guides on almost any topic that human beings have bothered to write about.

You just read the condensed Mobility State proposal.

The most common pushback I get, from both left and right, boils down to two words:   “Nice brochure, but that’s just Scandinavia with better branding — and America will never pay for it.”

Wrong on both counts. Here’s why this package is cheaper, structurally different, and politically plausible in the actual United States we have in 2025.

1. This Is Not Even Close to Nordic-Scale Spending

Nordic social democracy runs at 45–55 % of GDP, funded by 25 % VATs and crushing payroll taxes.

A full-bore Mobility State toolkit — all four pillars, generously sized — adds roughly 3–5 % of GDP in new spending. That’s in the same financial ballpark as:

• the Trump-era Opportunity Zones + Child Tax Credit expansion, or  
• one single year of the CARES Act (which was 25 % of GDP and passed in a weekend).

Rough cost envelope (2025 dollars):

• Universal Opportunity Accounts (“baby bonds on steroids”): ~$150–200 bn/yr  
• True portable benefits (mostly re-plumbing health insurance): near revenue-neutral  
• Modern GI Bill for economic transitions: ~$80–120 bn/yr  
• Housing mobility + supply-side reform: revenue-neutral or growth-positive

That’s not “Sweden.” That’s “GI Bill 2.0 + Swiss health system + YIMBY zoning reform.” Congress has done bigger things when it feels the heat.

2. It’s Built for American DNA, Not European DNA

A Mobility State for an Age of Inequality

America’s real crisis is not just inequality; it is the collapse of mobility in a high-churn, high-immigration society. The old promise—work hard, play by the rules, move up—now feels like a rumor for millions juggling gig jobs, locked out of housing markets, or stuck with obsolete skills. We do not need nostalgic protectionism or minimalist fatalism. We need a mobility state: public policy designed not to freeze people in place with bigger cushions, but to equip them to move—across jobs, regions, and life stages—without falling through the cracks.

The New Inequality: Resilience, Not Just Income

Today’s inequality is less about static wealth gaps and more about who has buffers against constant change. Asset owners ride appreciating houses and stocks; everyone else faces volatile pay, algorithm-driven schedules, and benefits that vanish when the job does. Automation, platforms, and global competition reward the adaptable and punish the exposed. The result is a divide in agency: some treat layoffs as detours; others never recover.

Why Obvious Fixes Keep Dying

Americans broadly support making retraining easier, benefits portable, or housing less gated. Yet reforms stall because of:

• Structural veto points and regulatory capture
• Cultural skepticism of “big government”
• Partisan branding wars (“socialism” vs. “welfare”)

The Mobility State: A Third Model

I. A Thought Experiment: Taking the Words Seriously

Imagine taking the founding slogans of the United States at face value.

Government derives its just powers from the consent of the governed.   No taxation without representation.   Treaties are the supreme law of the land.

Now imagine applying those same rules not only to the former British colonies along the Atlantic coast, but also to the Native nations who already lived across the rest of the continent. What would that have required? What would it have made impossible?

For most Americans, the answer was never really explored. In school, the story tends to come in two tracks. On one track, we follow the high-minded drama of the founding: declarations, constitutions, debates over federalism and rights. On the other track, out at the edge of the map, we get the adventure story of “the frontier”: settlers, wagon trains, homesteads, the march westward. Native peoples tend to enter the picture as background—sometimes as noble allies, sometimes as dangerous foes, often as temporary figures who fade away once the town is built and the railroad arrives.

What almost never gets spelled out is that these two tracks are not separate stories. They are the same story seen from different angles. The question is whether the principles in the first track ever had a real chance of constraining what happened in the second. If they didn’t, then we have to ask a harder question: did the United States quietly decide, very early on, that its founding rules did not fully apply when Native nations were involved?

On June 16, 2015, Donald Trump rode down a golden escalator and said the sentence that would define his politics:

“When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best… They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.”

You can read the full campaign announcement speech transcript here or in many other archives, but that one line is the part that stuck. At the time, a lot of people treated it like a bad joke. A clownish bit of over-the-top rhetoric that would either sink his candidacy or get sanded down once “real governing” began. Others, especially immigrants and Latinos, heard exactly what it was: an invitation. A green light for a certain kind of imagination about who “we” are and who “they” are.

Fast-forward a decade, and I’m sitting in Durham, North Carolina, reading about Operation Charlotte’s Web: heavily armed federal agents sweeping through Charlotte’s neighborhoods and business districts, grabbing people outside churches, bakeries, apartment complexes.

On the first day alone, at least 81 people were arrested in Charlotte. Reports describe masked agents, long guns, and aggressive tactics that left local immigrant communities terrified to leave home. Local coverage and national outlets have documented businesses closing, children kept indoors, and a Honduran-born U.S. citizen violently detained when he fit someone’s mental picture of what an “immigrant” looks like.

I. Introduction — The Broken Mobility Bargain

Take a thirty-year-old juggling a patchwork life in a big metro. She drives for two apps in the morning, stocks shelves on a short-term contract at night, and splits rent with roommates because buying into the housing market feels like science fiction. When her hours get cut or an algorithm changes, there is no buffer beyond a maxed-out credit card and a savings account that never quite fills. She is not lazy, not reckless, and not alone. Her story is what the old American promise sounds like when it starts to fray.

For most of American history, the country’s favorite promise has been simple: work hard, play by the rules, and you can move up. The details changed by era and region, but the core bargain felt stable enough that millions of people were willing to bet their lives on it. Today, that promise feels less like a rule and more like a rumor. Wealth and power have consolidated at the top; housing, health care, and education eat up a growing share of paychecks; and what used to look like a climb now feels, for many, like running in place.

You can see it most clearly in the lives built on the edges of the old structure. Gig workers who knit together three apps to make rent. Young renters who cannot imagine owning a home in the places where opportunity clusters. Immigrants who do everything right—study, work, pay taxes—only to discover that their credentials vanish in a maze of licensing boards and opaque requirements. For them, the path upward no longer looks like a clear route. It looks more like a maze with locked gates and missing exits. The result is not just hardship, but a spreading sense that the game itself has quietly changed—that it is not only hard, but rigged.

I. Introduction — The American Paradox

For as long as it has existed, the United States has carried two competing self-portraits. On one hand, it is the archetypal “nation of immigrants”—a country defined not by bloodline but by the recurring arrival of new people, new languages, and new cultural currents. On the other, it has repeatedly flirted with the idea of building a large, protective, European-style welfare state, the kind associated with stability, solidarity, and a tightly woven social safety net. These are both powerful visions of what a nation can be. But they do not always coexist easily.

The tension is simple to describe and notoriously difficult to resolve: can a country sustain both high levels of immigration and a far-reaching social-democratic welfare state? Many modern political movements treat these two ideals as naturally compatible—morally aligned, even. Yet historically, the countries that built the most comprehensive social-democratic systems did so under conditions of cultural homogeneity and slow demographic change. The United States, by contrast, has been defined by constant demographic renewal, often in rapid waves.

A century ago, though, something different happened. The United States tightened its immigration laws dramatically, shutting the door to whole regions of the world under the logic of racial “preservation.” And it was precisely in that same era—roughly from the 1930s through the 1960s—that America developed the beginnings of a modern welfare state, expanded union power, and laid the foundations of its vast administrative apparatus. These two forces—redistribution and demographic closure—grew together not because they were philosophically aligned, but because one was artificially engineered to make the other politically possible.

From the moment a new immigrant steps onto Ellis Island, America sells itself as the land of limitless possibility—an intellectual blank slate where beliefs are meant to be forged in the fires of reason rather than inherited bloodlines. Yet beneath that aspirational veneer lies a potent creed, one that demands its own form of ideological conformity.

In theory, the United States should be a paradise for freethinkers: a nation whose founding documents exalt individual liberty, skepticism of authority, and the Enlightenment’s valorization of reason. The First Amendment’s protection of speech and religion seems tailor-made to shelter those who question dogma, tradition, and entrenched power.

But ideals are one thing, lived reality another. Americans often find that straying too far from the “official” creed—whether by challenging unfettered markets or criticizing founding myths—invites swift social sanctions. In practice, deviance from accepted narratives can brand you as unpatriotic or even subversive.

This tension stems from America’s identity as a creedal nation rather than an ethnic one. Where many countries lean on shared ancestry or cultural homogeneity to forge national unity, the U.S. leans on a shared set of principles. And principles, as it turns out, can be policed just as rigorously as lineage.

So does America really want freethinkers? The short answer: it wants them up to a point. Freethinking that reinforces prosperity, innovation, and technological progress is celebrated—think Silicon Valley iconoclasts or academic mavericks. But freethinking that threatens political stability, economic orthodoxy, or the consumerist consensus is often met with suspicion or outright hostility.

Гроза гремела над морем. Приближался шторм. Позади лес...и чудовище. Дальше бежать некуда. Анна подошла к краю скалы, внизу бушевали волны, и с шумом били о скалы. Острые как лезвие. На мгновение, в сознании Анны промелькнула мысль, и картинки ее падения...а затем пустота. Я Анна Амредж. Хватит ждать! Я не боюсь тебя! Выходи. Я знаю что ты там! Анна сделала решительный шаг. И посмотрела в чашу леса. Где-то в этой тьме, смотрит голодным взглядом чудовище. Которого она так сейчас боится. Из леса вышел Ричард, он упал на колени. Анна помоги мне! Господи Ричард, что с тобой? Этот чудовище напало на тебя? Ты ранен? С этими словами, она бросилась без раздумий к Ричарду, обнимая, и осматривая нет ли у него серьезных ранений. Анна... послушай меня! Не жди... Беги...на его лице была тревога и желание что-то сказать. Анна взяла ладонями лицо Ричарда. Я не брошу тебя, Ричард. Не сейчас ни когда либо. Я люблю тебя. Он почувствовал прикосновение к губам. И дикое желание, попробовать ее на вкус....вкус крови. Нет, ты не знаешь кто я! Анна, я прошу тебя, сейчас же, бежать. Что ты такое говоришь? Почему ты гонишь меня? Ричард...я не понимаю что происходит. Я...я люблю тебя Анна. Просто знай. Такие как я. Не выбирают кем им быть. Ты должна меня понять. Пожалуйста. Его взгляд, поднялся в небо, рука поднялась, указывая на луну. Которая озарила тьму. И освятила их, полнолуние было ярким как солнце. Анна обернулась чтобы посмотреть на лунный свет. До нее донеслись звуки.... подобные тем что она слышала, когда убегала от чудовища, похожее на волка. Она обернулась, перед ней стоял, то самое существо с волчьей головой. Она сделала шаг, затем ещё шаг назад. Подойдя к краю. Всё это время, не переставая смотреть на рычащего зверя.Она почувствовала что, земля под ногой обвалилась. В этот момент чудовище сделало прыжок, так жадно хотелось ему плоти. И совсем не хотелось упустить добычу. Свет озарился, вокруг нее. Он освещал все ее тело. Между ними образовался барьер, невидимый. Так близко его видеть. И понимать что это тот кого она любит. Она вспомнила лес, и мертвую Деби. Как искали тело. А нашли только одежду, разорванную и в крови. И все те кто пропал, в этом проклятом лесу. Это был отец Ричарда, мистер Джон. Волна приняла ее мягко. Падение и тот момент когда вода ее накрыла, она увидела юную девушку, с красивым лицом. Она взяла Анна за руку. И они понеслись к берегу. Меня зовут Нали, я живу в океане. Я и мой народ. Она обратилась к Анне, поклонившись. Твоя мама была мне как сестра. Раньше мы с ней виделись часто. Но позже ее убила сестра близнец, твоя тётя. Впитав ее силу, и силой завладела миром ведьм. Для Анны это было как сон. Ее тело сияло. Падение с обрыва, в бушующее море. Чудесное спасение. Вокруг плавали женщины с хвостом. А где то, либо живой либо мертвый, рыщет волк. Она прервала разговор. Я не могу в это поверить, моя мама погибла сегодня утром. От рук чародея. Наши посмотрела на Анну, взглядом полным понимания и сострадания. Анна, твой народ находится в рабстве. Самый сильный и жестокий предводитель, завладел душой твоей тети. Чтобы править миром ведьм, и этим миром миром людей. Ещё не много и начнется война, скоро печать может расколоться. Если они соберут все камни вместе. Анна. Мне жаль что на твои плечи выпало бремя, когда никого нет. И ты одна. Но у тебя есть я и мой народ. Анна послушай меня пожалуйста. Я открою тайну, твоего рождения. И многое расскажу. Только сейчас надо чтобы ты смирилась с тем что произошло. Сегодня полнолуние, и день твоего совершеннолетия. Время когда высшие силы, откроют твое сознание. И ты сама всё поймёшь. Огонь защищает и подчиняется тебе, вода расскажет то что слышит вокруг. Земля и воздух оберегают.

For much of my life, I thought of suffering as something like weather. It arrived from somewhere outside me, often without much warning. There was not necessarily anything to do with it. You prepared as best you could, endured whatever came, and waited for the sky to clear. Anxiety could work this way. Depression could work this way. So could the obsessive replay of something that had happened already, or the anticipation of something that might happen and could not yet be influenced. The experience was not only painful in itself. Part of what made it painful was the sense that I was being acted upon. Suffering was a hurricane, and I was the house.

Over the last few years, though, something in that relationship has changed. The strange part is that the change has coincided with my deliberately introducing more pain into my life. I lift weights almost every day. I run a lot. Since getting rid of my car in late March, I have made walking, running, biking and public transit the machinery of ordinary mobility, sometimes adding a cargo wagon when I need to move more than my back can sensibly carry. There are now many more occasions on which my legs ache, my lungs burn, my muscles reach the point where they would strongly prefer that I stop, or I discover that the place I need to reach is inconveniently several miles away.

And yet I suffer less.

That sounds contradictory until I distinguish pain from suffering. The discomfort of a long run is perfectly real. So is the final repetition of a difficult set. There are moments when every physiological signal available to consciousness seems to be voting for rest. But those sensations do not feel anything like the old experience of psychological suffering. They can even feel life-giving while they are unpleasant. There is an odd simultaneity to strenuous exercise: I can want the hill to end while also being glad that I am climbing it. I can experience something that hurts without experiencing it as something bad.