Alexandra Holzer

“The entire global trading system until Richard Nixon took us off was tied to gold.” - Scott Bessent United States Secretary of the Treasury The departure from gold by Richard Nixon was supposed to be temporary. That was 55 years ago.

The world is $300 trillion in debt. To whom? To banks. To institutions. To entities that produce nothing, grow nothing, build nothing, have never built anything, and could not survive a single honest day in the market they feed from. The debt of the entire human race, every nation, every farm, every factory, every hour of human labour ever wrung from a human body, owed to men who created the money they lent from nothing. From policy. From decree. From the same dark authority a priest invokes when he declares the sacrifice acceptable. You cannot be in debt to something that conjured the currency. That is not debt. That is a curse dressed in contract law. Tax is the local collection mechanism of this architecture. You pay tax. The government takes tax. The government services the debt with tax. The debt flows to the lenders. The lenders created the money from nothing. Your labour, your risk, your sleepless years building something real, converted into numbers that service a balance that should not exist, held by men who never once touched the thing you built. The parasite does not hate you. That would require acknowledging you. You are simply the host. The arrangement is impersonal. The extraction is systemic. The men at the top of this structure have not thought about you once. You are a flow on a spreadsheet. A tithe schedule. A yield. The people feed the fire. The priests of Baal file the paperwork. The god grows fat. And the people are told this is civilisation. But the spell only holds while the people believe it. The priest has no power over the man who walks past the altar without stopping. The tithe only flows from the man who accepts he owes it. The fire dies when the people stop bringing wood. Baal is not defeated by war. He is defeated by recognition. By the moment a man looks at the priest, looks at the fire, looks at the invoice in his hand, and says: I made this. You made nothing. And I do not owe you my life. That is the ending the priests cannot file paperwork against.