Everything is broken on purpose. Not by accident. Not by bad luck. Not by fate. Someone signed the paperwork. They cut down a forest, called it growth. They poisoned a river, called it efficiency. They buried the truth, called it public relations. Every dead bee has a shareholder. Every empty ocean has a board of directors. Every burning summer has a smiling spokesperson explaining why it's actually good for business. Extract. Expand. Exploit. Repeat. The sky isn't blue anymore— it's quarterly earnings. The mountain became gravel. The gravel became concrete. The concrete became another warehouse full of things nobody needed. The receipt is addressed to your grandchildren. You breathe smoke. They breathe dividends. You count heatwaves. They count yachts. You recycle cans. They recycle politicians. If a rainforest falls and the stock goes up, did it ever exist? Every disaster is another investment opportunity. Floods. Fires. Droughts. Storms. Premium content. Sponsored by greed. Everything has a price. Nothing has value. The future was auctioned before we were born. We're told to shower faster, drive less, eat differently, switch off the lights— while private jets draw circles in the sky like signatures at the bottom of another deal. Everything is broken on purpose. Because repair doesn't pay. Scarcity does. Fear does. Collapse does. Keep drilling. Keep smiling. Keep applauding the quarterly report while the planet coughs up another lung. When the last forest becomes a luxury golf course... When the last glacier becomes a bottled-water brand... When the last fish is photographed instead of caught... They'll still call it a successful fiscal year. Everything is broken on purpose. And somebody is getting filthy rich every second it stays that way.
