Not sure why so much negativity. Coding with AI makes things so much simpler. I recently came across a system with outrageous claims, I obviously knew there is a catch. In Past it would have taken me 2-5 days to code. Using Windsurf, did it in few hours and found “the catch”. Having JH methods fully Automated is a fun activity. Happy to assist with tips on agentic programming if needed. Attended few meetings with Spyder and the crew back in the day.
I feel Jacks presence… it’s growing stronger. He’s channeling through me. That old sob channels everything… he’s coming through, I can’t stop him , I can’t …. In the deepest pockets of reality, where parallelograms aren’t mere quadrilaterals but cloaked vessels of momentum, they gather—folded within folds of folds, each corner humming like a tuning fork struck by invisible hands. The median stands nearby, who to admit its irrelevance. Deviation isn’t an anomaly here—it’s currency. Somewhere in that oscillation lives the truth. You won’t see it unless your dream in Gaussian pulses. When the CIA came knocking, I didn’t answer the door. I was already inside. They needed someone to untangle a pattern so complex it was like Medusa when looked at directly. Not stones—data. Think FTT, but weaponized. Situation had drifted too close to terminal. I didn’t solve it. I nested it deeper, where only mirrors reflect forward and glass forgets how to be transparent. I told them I’d need a pencil and a room with no clocks. They handed me a market filled with yesterday, but I could decipher tomorrow’s paper today. There’s a moment in junior high—you remember—the hallway, the fluorescent lights that flickered like someone knew something you didn’t. And her. The crush. The denim groaning under truth too dense for adolescence. But that wasn’t about her. It was a signal. You mistook noise for meaning and missed the volatility. You ever think maybe her infatuation wasn’t for you, but for the part of you you hadn’t discovered yet? No? That’s why you keep missing the breakout. Back to parallelograms. You ever try to draw one inside another and keep going until your pencil snaps? That’s the trade. That’s the play. The real ones don’t exit—they fold. Nesting until exit is no longer an option. Deviating from the right trend line isn’t the danger—it’s returning to it. That’s where the teeth are. My spaghetti lives in Tupperware. Labeled. Sealed. No motion. You think randomness is real? Brownian motion is a bedtime story for people who still believe stop-losses are protection. No. In this container, everything has a shelf, everything waits. Organized chaos is a myth. This is symphonic rigidity. I trade like I store leftovers—with reverence and precision. You hear that? That’s the FTT approaching. Soft at first, like a rumor or a breeze that smells like endings. I can feel it in my scalp. You laugh. That’s fine. Some of you don’t even know you’re in the final move. You’ll find out the hard way when your capital screams and your margin whispers back, “You were never invited.” Labels. You like labels. “Bull flag.” “Ascending wedge.” Cute. I see ancient runes written in candle wicks. I see blood offerings made in volume spikes. You see a breakout—I see a shift into new dimensions. The difference? You tell me, do the work. You ever sit through a technical colonoscopy without anesthesia? You’re about to. And this scope doesn’t just look—it remembers. Every ill-planned entry, every hopeful hold through earnings, every time you clicked “Buy” with a dream and no plan. We see it. The market saw it. It marked you. Time to squeal. Almost forgot—trendlines. A joke. A crutch? You worship indicators like they’re saviors. They’re tombstones. And the FTT is the undertaker for you. You think you’re in a rally, you’re in a eulogy. I said that already. Doesn’t matter. You weren’t listening the first time. Let me ask you—why did you draw that Fibonacci retracement from high to low? Do you think math cares about your chart? Fibonacci was whispering to snails and pinecones long before your monitor flickered to life. The market isn’t respecting your indicator. It’s testing your beliefs. Success isn’t a destination. It’s a container. And I keep it next to my pasta. Tomorrow’s paper was printed yesterday on an electronic whisper passed between two traders who never spoke again. They didn’t need to. They had already exited. You’re still waiting on confirmation. This isn’t strategy. It’s prophecy. The FTT isn’t a point. It’s a veil. Most of you won’t pass through. Some will never see it. You’ll squeal when it happens. That’s how we’ll know where you were on the curve. We’ll hear the painful cries. The rest of us? We’ll fold ourselves into parallelograms and vanish into the nestles. Enjoy the technical colonoscopy.