We know the system is corrupt.

The deeper we dig into the realities of our current system, the clearer it becomes that we're living in a paradox—on one hand, the corruption feels omnipresent, like rot that's seeped into the very bones of society. Courts and governments, once the bastions of justice and collective will, now often seem more like mechanisms designed to perpetuate themselves and enrich those who know how to game the system. But if we stop there, if we only see the corruption, we miss something critical. We miss the fact that we are living at a time when, as a collective, people have more power than ever before. It’s easy to get lost in the disillusionment and to focus on the darkness, but there’s another side to this story, and it’s one we can’t afford to overlook.

Profit-driven systems have always been with us in some form. Money has long dictated the structures of power, transforming once noble ideas into commodities. In the current age, it’s no secret that the economy is designed to turn people into consumers first and citizens second. Corporations have the same rights as individuals, while individuals themselves are often reduced to little more than numbers—credits, debts, and profits in someone else’s ledger. We see this in healthcare, in law, in education. The machinery grinds on, and it’s powered by money. That's the reality we’ve inherited, and it’s undeniable. But to frame this solely as a system in decay would be missing the larger context. Because alongside the machinery, we are witnessing a profound shift in human power—something that’s less visible but no less real.

This is the tension we’re living in: a world where systems are failing, but people are becoming more connected, more informed, and more capable of pushing back. The truth is, people have never had more access to information, more tools for organization, more ways to challenge the status quo than they do right now. And that matters. It matters because it means we don’t have to wait for the system to collapse to spark change. The fire doesn’t have to come from burning everything to the ground; it can come from people using the tools they already have to reshape the world from within. The problem is that, often, these tools are underutilized or misdirected. The power to organize, to challenge, to create alternative systems exists, but it’s up to us to use it.

It’s a mistake to think of people as passive cogs in a machine, trapped in a "money slave society" with no way out.

While the system does operate on those dynamics, it’s more fragile than it seems. That fragility is where the opportunity lies. Look at the protests, movements, and global shifts happening right now. These are not the actions of powerless individuals. These are the actions of a collective that is waking up to its power. Even within this profit-driven society, there are cracks, and those cracks are growing wider. Every time people organize—whether through technology, grassroots movements, or simple acts of civil disobedience—they show that the system, as vast and corrupt as it may be, is vulnerable to collective action.

The irony is that the same technologies and infrastructures that have helped create the profit-first world we live in also provide the means to dismantle it, or at least transform it. Social media, blockchain, alternative economies—these are not just buzzwords but tools that, in the right hands, can reshape power structures in ways previously unimaginable. The challenge isn’t whether the system is corrupt—we know it is. The challenge is whether people are willing to leverage the tools at their disposal to create something different.

It’s here that the deeper truth emerges: the system may be designed to perpetuate inequality and profit, but it’s not omnipotent. Governments, corporations, and courts may hold the reins of traditional power, but they are also more exposed than ever. The court of public opinion has shifted to the digital realm, and while it’s messy and imperfect, it’s undeniably powerful. Look at the movements for climate change, social justice, or healthcare reform. These aren’t movements being led from the top down—they’re being driven by people who understand that the system needs to change and are finding ways to force that change.

Yet, the system’s resilience shouldn’t be underestimated. There are real forces—economic, political, social—that resist change. And, as you rightly point out, there’s a deep rot in many institutions that won’t be easily removed. The system, as it stands, is built on deeply entrenched interests, and those interests will fight to survive. The more corrupt and rigid a system becomes, the more it doubles down on protecting itself. This is where the danger lies, not just in the system’s willingness to exploit, but in its capacity to crush dissent when it feels threatened. We see this in surveillance, in the criminalization of protest, in the manipulation of media to frame resistance as chaos.

So, what do we do with this tension? How do we reconcile the knowledge that the system is rotting with the understanding that we have more power than ever before? The answer, perhaps, is not in choosing between destruction or submission, but in finding ways to harness that collective power to push for transformation, without waiting for the entire structure to collapse. Revolution, in the modern sense, doesn’t need to come from flames; it can come from persistence, from refusal, from disruption that’s calculated rather than chaotic. The system’s weaknesses are there for us to exploit, but that requires strategy, not just anger.

The system, as we know, is corrupt. And yet, here we stand, debating something so inherently dangerous, so delicate that to get it wrong, even in a whisper, risks opening the door to something far darker than most would dare to imagine. Assisted suicide—what some might call an act of compassion, of dignity—is walking a tightrope. Beneath that rope lies a yawning chasm, not just of morality, but of a reality so stark it almost seems unbelievable when laid bare.

Let’s start with the obvious: all healthcare workers are there to get paid. No illusions. No romanticized notions of altruism unfettered by the reality of rent, mortgages, bills, the grind of modern life. They show up because that’s how the system functions. And this—this is the double-edged sword. What does it mean when life-and-death decisions are being made by those whose first obligation, no matter how compassionate, no matter how ethical, is to a paycheck? The sanctity of life, as they call it, is at the mercy of those incentives.

Look at history, at any institution that has tried to thread the needle between care and commerce, and you’ll see the cracks. The corruption isn’t the exception; it’s woven into the fabric of how things are done. The profit motive? It seeps into every decision, big or small. And healthcare, for all its lofty ideals, is no different. Whether it’s the insurance companies tightening the purse strings or the hospitals trimming the fat, the patient is all too often reduced to a number. A cost-benefit analysis with flesh and blood.

The introduction of assisted suicide into this already precarious system should sound alarms for anyone paying attention. It’s a ripe, dangerous territory. Look at Switzerland, or the Netherlands, where such practices have been legalized under strict guidelines. On the surface, it seems compassionate—let the terminally ill choose when to go, let them spare themselves the final indignity of suffering beyond what they can bear. But those safeguards? They rely on trust. Trust that the system works as it’s supposed to, trust that every doctor, every administrator, every healthcare worker involved is holding the patient’s dignity above their own motivations, above the silent whispers of cost efficiency, hospital capacity, and resource allocation.

The slippery slope isn't just some far-fetched concept thrown around by alarmists. It's real. It’s here, staring us down. And let’s not pretend it’s limited to the severely terminal cases. Once the door is opened, once assisted suicide is accepted as a “solution,” it’s all too easy for the criteria to expand, for it to become an option for those seen as burdens—elderly patients, the disabled, even those struggling with mental health issues. The system, already corrupt and driven by the bottom line, will see it as a cost-saving measure. Assisted suicide becomes a convenient way to cut losses, to reduce overhead.

Let’s not forget—this is happening in a world where the most vulnerable people are already falling through the cracks. Imagine being someone with little family, no strong advocate. Your life, your suffering, seen through the lens of a spreadsheet by a hospital administrator or a doctor weighed down by bureaucracy. A nudge here, a suggestion there, and before you know it, you’re being handed a way out. Not out of compassion, but out of necessity. A necessity that isn’t even your own.

It’s insidious. When you peel back the layers, it’s not about whether or not someone should have the right to end their suffering; it’s about who gets to make that decision, and under what influence. How can we ever be certain that the decision is truly theirs when the system in which they live, breathe, and die is designed to nudge them toward the path of least resistance? We like to think we’re free, that our choices are our own, but the truth is, when the infrastructure is so deeply corrupt, autonomy becomes a mirage.

Accountability is supposed to be the answer. Safeguards, regulations, psychological evaluations, second opinions—all designed to make sure it’s all done ethically, all above board. But who’s watching the gatekeepers? Who ensures the regulations themselves aren’t being influenced by the same corrupt forces that already shape so much of our healthcare? The slippery slope isn’t just about assisted suicide expanding its reach—it’s about the erosion of trust. Trust that those in power aren’t making decisions based on finances, or convenience, or fear of litigation. Trust that patients aren’t seen as liabilities to be managed.

We’ve seen it before. Once the system is set in motion, once the gears start turning, they don’t stop. It becomes normalized. And the most vulnerable? They get left behind. Those without wealth, without strong advocates, without the luxury of choice—they’re the ones at risk. In a world where insurance companies decide how much your life is worth, where hospitals run on efficiency models, where time is money, can we really believe that every decision will be made with the patient’s best interests at heart? It’s hard to trust a system where life and death can become just another line item.

We’ve arrived at a crossroads. One road leads to a future where patients have real autonomy, where assisted suicide is a compassionate choice made in the absence of systemic corruption. But the other road—that darker road—is where we’re headed if we don’t acknowledge the rot at the core of the system. The risk is too high. Lives are too precious to be reduced to numbers, too sacred to be managed like inventory in a warehouse.

There’s no simple solution, no quick fix. But pretending that everything is fine, that assisted suicide can be introduced into a corrupted system without consequence—that’s a dangerous fantasy. The cost of getting it wrong is too high, not just for the patients, but for society as a whole. And if we don’t stop and really examine what’s at stake, we risk something far worse than we can imagine.

We know the system is corrupt. And that knowledge should make us pause, take a hard look at the road ahead, and ask ourselves whether we’re really prepared for what lies beyond the bend.

It’s no longer a whisper in dark corners that corruption has woven itself into the fabric of every major institution. We see it in the courts, where justice is something that feels like it can be bought, if not outright stolen. The government, well, that’s a beast of its own. We’ve known for years now that the political game is a cesspool, and the stats don’t lie about how little faith people have left. It’s not just dissatisfaction; it’s disgust. And it’s more than justified. The truth people are coming to grips with, slowly and painfully, is that this system isn’t just broken. It’s rotting from the inside out. The stench of decay is there in every decision, every policy that’s supposedly in the "public interest" but serves only to line the pockets of those with the power to twist the rules.

It’s been said that systems don’t transform unless they collapse first. Maybe that’s what’s needed here—an ignition of sorts, a spark that finally lets this bloated, festering mass catch fire. It’s not even a radical idea anymore, but a logical progression. You don’t build a new forest until the old one burns. You don’t create something clean, something vital, unless you let the rot have its day and turn to ash. This isn’t the stuff of rebellion—it’s the stuff of nature.

Everything has a cycle, and what we’re seeing now is the late-stage decline of a system so corrupted, so fundamentally poisoned, that no patchwork fix is going to save it. The courts? They’ve become little more than arenas where the rich fight over who gets to trample the rest of us. Justice is blind, they say, but it seems she also has a price tag these days. And government? It’s hard to call it anything but a business at this point. We all know this, openly acknowledge it even, but what comes next is the harder truth. The system isn’t going to repair itself because it has no interest in being repaired. There’s no incentive for those in power to dismantle the very mechanisms that keep them in control. That’s why the match is necessary.

It's not destruction for its own sake, but transformation. This is where people get it wrong—they see the idea of burning down the system as chaos, as madness. But what they miss is that this kind of upheaval is the only way to clear the ground. Just like a forest fire makes way for new growth, so too does the collapse of a corrupt system make space for something better to emerge. The problem isn’t that people are angry; the problem is that more people aren’t angry enough. The statistics that show how little faith we have in these institutions don’t just represent a decline in trust—they represent a collective readiness for change, for something new to take root.

We stand at the precipice, not of disaster, but of possibility. The old guard clings to power with both hands, but their grip is weakening. They know, just as well as we do, that the foundation is crumbling. They’re only holding on to what’s left because they think they can ride it out, keep profiting off the decay for just a little longer. But when the match is struck, when the fire catches, they’ll be the first to go up in flames, consumed by the very rot they helped cultivate. And from the ashes? That’s where we’ll see the new growth—the kind that can’t flourish in the shadow of corruption and greed.

So let it burn. Let the rot feed the fire because out of that destruction, something new, something alive can emerge. This isn’t a call for recklessness but for a recognition of the natural cycle we’ve always known was coming. Systems, like forests, need to burn to stay healthy. The trick is knowing when to stop trying to save something that’s already dead and instead prepare for what comes next.

That’s where we are now—ready to stop pretending this system can be saved. Ready to watch the decay catch fire, not because we want chaos, but because we know it’s the only way to clear the ground for what comes after. It’s time for a new forest to grow. And it’s time to let the old one burn.

There's no denying the rot that has set into the heart of our institutions. It's easy to see it in the courts, the government, and yes, even in the healthcare system. Corruption has become a daily reality, whispered in the halls of power, but also openly acknowledged in public opinion. The statistics about the erosion of trust don’t lie. People are waking up to the fact that the systems that govern us have, in many ways, betrayed us. The illusion of accountability has slipped away, and what’s left is a grotesque machine fueled by profit, designed to keep the gears of inequality grinding. It’s not an abstract idea; it’s the reality we live in—a reality that breeds not just dissatisfaction, but a seething frustration.

But it's not that simple, is it? There's another side to this, and we have to acknowledge it if we want to really understand the situation. While the system feels rigged, and the stench of corruption is everywhere, the collective power of people has never been stronger. This isn’t the feudal ages, where the masses were silenced under the weight of kings and lords. Today, even in a world of profit-driven machines, people have a voice that carries further than it ever has before. Technology, the internet, mass communication—these are tools that have fundamentally shifted the balance of power. We live in an age where information is no longer hoarded by a few but can be shared, spread, and acted upon by the many. We see it every day in the movements that rise up, seemingly from nowhere, and force change. The power is there; the potential is real.

Yes, the system is corrupt. Yes, it thrives on inequality and the exploitation of the vulnerable. But the system, as powerful as it seems, is not invincible. The very structures it depends on—public perception, social norms, economic stability—are crumbling, and that’s because people are no longer willing to accept the status quo without question. The discomfort that comes from seeing how broken things are is also what fuels change. That’s why this moment is so important. It’s not just about destruction; it’s about transformation.

Consider the profit-driven society we live in. At its core, this system reduces people to cogs in a machine, creating what could be called a "money slave society." The idea of human value becomes tied to productivity, to profit, to capital. It’s an old trick, really—the wealthy few keeping the rest in check by making them believe that their worth is defined by their contribution to a system that ultimately benefits those at the top. It’s a loop that feeds itself. The harder people work to survive, the more they reinforce the very system that exploits them. But this is where the narrative gets complicated. The same system that oppresses also empowers in unexpected ways. We are not powerless in the face of this machinery. In fact, the very structures that have been built to control us—technology, media, commerce—are also the tools that can be used to dismantle it.

Think about it. In the past, rebellion required physical force, armies rising against armies. Today, revolutions begin with information. With a single idea that sparks and spreads, igniting movements that cross borders and cultures. The collective voice of people, amplified through technology, has the power to disrupt the very systems that once seemed unbreakable. We saw it in the Arab Spring, in protests against racial injustice, in climate activism. This isn’t about chaos for its own sake. It’s about channeling collective power into something greater, something transformative.

So, when we talk about lighting a match and letting the rot burn, we have to be careful. Yes, sometimes destruction is necessary for new growth. Forests, as we know, thrive after fire clears away the deadwood. But destruction alone isn’t enough. If all we do is burn, we’re left with nothing but ash. The key is in what comes after the fire—the intentional act of rebuilding, of planting the seeds for something better. The real danger isn’t just in the corruption of the system; it’s in letting that corruption consume us so fully that we lose sight of the potential for renewal.

The truth is, we’ve never been in a better position to challenge the systems that oppress us. It’s easy to get lost in the narrative of doom, in the belief that we’re powerless against the vast machinery of capitalism and corruption. But that’s not the full story. The very fact that we’re able to have this conversation, that we’re able to spread these ideas, shows that the tools of power are shifting. This isn’t a moment to simply watch the system collapse. It’s a moment to take control of the collapse, to direct it, to ensure that what rises from the ashes isn’t just a new version of the same old system but something entirely new—something built on principles of equity, transparency, and shared power.

It's true, the courts are compromised, and the government is entangled in its own self-serving interests. But that’s not the end of the story. What we’re seeing now is the beginning of something bigger. People aren’t just waking up to the corruption; they’re finding ways to fight it. And that fight doesn’t have to be all about fire and destruction. It can be about transformation, about using the power we have—collective, technological, informational—to reshape the world into something that works for everyone, not just the few at the top.

We have the tools. We have the numbers. And despite the rot in the system, the soil underneath is still fertile. The match may be needed, but it’s the seeds we plant after that will define the future.

In the shadow of every grand idea lies a darker truth, one that speaks to the vulnerabilities of the systems we’ve constructed. Assisted suicide, at its core, stands as a testament to human compassion—a desire to relieve suffering. But like all powerful concepts, it exists within the context of the world that has built it, and the world, as we know, is often deeply flawed. In a healthcare system where the driving force is profit, where every professional who walks the sterile halls shows up because they need to get paid, we face a harsh reality. This reality forces us to confront the double-edged sword of assisted suicide. What is framed as an act of mercy could just as easily become an act of convenience, slipping through the cracks of accountability that seem to disappear into the ether.

If we pause and consider the infrastructure of healthcare, the truth becomes difficult to ignore. Hospitals and healthcare systems are, in many ways, businesses first. They are driven by budgets, profit margins, and bottom lines. Healthcare workers, from the surgeons saving lives to the nurses at the bedside, may carry the noble banner of healing, but they do so within a system that ultimately demands profitability. And that’s where the danger creeps in. The sharpest edge of assisted suicide isn’t found in the act itself; it’s in the potential for abuse within a system that, in so many ways, is already corrupted. The guiding principle of these institutions is not always the preservation of life, dignity, or even patient autonomy, but often the reduction of costs. And that’s the space where vulnerable people live—in the gray zone where medical ethics collide with financial pressures. When we talk about assisted suicide, we cannot ignore this stark economic reality, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

The more cynical among us might argue that this isn't just a hypothetical slippery slope, but rather a looming inevitability. We’ve already seen how certain demographics—those who are elderly, disabled, or economically disadvantaged—become marginalized in healthcare settings. Is it so hard to believe that a system driven by profit could subtly nudge people toward choosing death over life, especially when their continued existence represents an ongoing financial burden? A person’s suffering is undeniably real, but in a world where care comes at a steep price, the lines between patient choice and systemic coercion become blurred. That’s the insidious nature of corruption: it rarely shouts its intent; instead, it whispers. It whispers in hospital corridors, in the conversations that patients aren’t privy to, in the statistics that quietly chart the rising costs of end-of-life care.

Look no further than the laws in places like Canada, where medical assistance in dying (MAID) has expanded to include people with chronic conditions, and we see the murkiness of this issue in practice. While it’s a testament to a society’s evolution to offer a way out for those in pain, it is also a reflection of a society willing to accept that death can be a solution when the system can’t, or won’t, provide adequate care. The question we have to ask ourselves is whether this acceptance is born out of compassion or convenience. And if it's the latter, how can we claim any moral high ground? How do we sleep at night knowing that life and death decisions could be made not based on human dignity, but on the cold calculus of cost-benefit analyses?

The accountability in this kind of system doesn’t sit with any one person or institution; it is lost somewhere in the web of policies, protocols, and financial incentives that govern modern healthcare. The doctor who offers assisted suicide may believe wholeheartedly in the ethics of relieving suffering, but they operate in a system that counts on them making those kinds of decisions. When accountability becomes so diffuse, where does the responsibility lie? In a system where corruption thrives, accountability can slip through fingers like sand, with no one able—or willing—to grasp it.

This isn't some dystopian vision of the future. It’s the reality we’re living in. Take a look at how healthcare operates, how pharmaceutical companies, insurance providers, and even governments view the elderly and the terminally ill. Look at how the system already treats those who can’t afford to pay their medical bills. Assisted suicide, in such a landscape, is not just a matter of personal autonomy or dignity. It’s a tool—a potentially dangerous one—that can be wielded for the wrong reasons. It’s easy to frame it as a matter of choice, but whose choice is it, really? If the patient feels like a burden, financially or emotionally, to their family or to society, is that really a choice at all? What happens when the system itself quietly suggests, “There is another option,” not out of compassion, but out of convenience?

You don’t have to dig far into history to find parallels. The most sinister policies are never presented as monstrous. They’re sold as solutions. They come cloaked in the language of progress and humanity. They promise relief, but they deliver something far colder. And if we’re not careful—if we don’t confront the real forces driving these decisions—we might find ourselves walking down a path where life and death become decisions not made by the individuals living them, but by the systems profiting from them.

The ultimate fear isn’t that assisted suicide will become commonplace. The fear is that it will become normalized in a way that allows society to turn a blind eye to the real reasons it’s being offered. The fear is that in our pursuit of alleviating suffering, we will create a system that erases the line between mercy and expediency. Because once that line is crossed, it becomes very hard to return. The question then isn’t whether assisted suicide should exist. It’s whether we trust the system that will wield it.

The reality is, in this system, the sword cuts both ways. On one side is the relief of suffering, the noblest of causes. But on the other side lies the potential for the most profound abuse. And in a healthcare system motivated by profit and driven by incentives that often place financial considerations above all else, that sword becomes even sharper. It’s a reality we have to face head-on because once accountability fades into the ether, what remains is the stark, cold truth that every decision made will ultimately be measured against the ledger.

There’s no denying that the world today feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something—something big, something inevitable. On one hand, you’ve got a system that’s rotted through at its core, driven by profit, where people often feel more like cogs in a machine than individuals. The term "money slave society" isn’t just hyperbole anymore; it’s a reality that so many are waking up to. The courts, the government, the industries that hold so much sway over our lives—they’ve all been touched by this pursuit of wealth above all else. It’s no longer just about survival or prosperity, but about profit for profit’s sake, where human beings are viewed as resources to be exploited or discarded.

But this isn't the whole story. If we only focus on the corruption, the decay, the collapse, we miss the other side. And it’s a side that has become more pronounced in recent years: the power of people, collectively, to reshape the world in ways we couldn’t have imagined even a few decades ago. For all the darkness we see in the system, we also live in a time where individuals—connected by technology, galvanized by shared purpose—are more powerful than ever.

The tension between these two realities—the systemic rot and the growing power of the collective—creates a kind of paradox. Yes, the system is broken in many ways. Yes, it seems that money and power have corrupted the very institutions we once relied on. But alongside this, there’s something else happening. It’s in the protests we see sweeping across the world, in the way information spreads faster than the old guard can contain it, and in the collective awareness that, together, people can challenge even the most entrenched structures.

Let’s be clear: the system we’re talking about didn’t just arrive out of nowhere. It’s a product of centuries of industrialization, capitalism, and the slow, grinding movement toward a globalized society. Money, power, control—these are the pillars upon which modern nations have been built. But as those pillars grow taller, the distance between the people at the top and everyone else becomes more pronounced. And in that gap, something dangerous brews: the sense that individuals no longer matter, that decisions are being made for us, not by us. That’s the essence of the profit-driven machine, where every institution—government, business, even the courts—seems to operate on a single premise: maximize gain, minimize cost, and keep the gears turning.

But we’d be mistaken to think that this is just a one-sided, inevitable march toward collapse. If history has taught us anything, it’s that systems evolve, and sometimes they evolve because people push them to. The idea that "the people" are powerless against the weight of these systems is outdated. Today, we have tools at our disposal that previous generations couldn’t have imagined. The digital age has redefined what it means to be connected, to be informed, and most importantly, to be heard.

Look at the movements that have sprung up across the globe—movements that have toppled governments, that have forced corporations to change their policies, that have sparked debates in the highest halls of power. These aren’t isolated incidents; they’re part of a larger trend. The old guard may still have control over the institutions, but the people are finding new ways to challenge that control. It’s not perfect, and the system hasn’t been overturned by any means, but there is a shift happening. And that shift represents a new kind of power—a collective power that, while still in its infancy, has the potential to reshape the future.

But let’s not romanticize this either. The collective power of the people doesn’t automatically mean everything gets better. Just as systems of power can be corrupt, so too can movements be co-opted, splintered, or misdirected. What we’re seeing is the beginning of something, not the end. And like all beginnings, it’s messy, it’s uncertain, and it’s full of contradictions. The system we have now wasn’t built overnight, and it won’t collapse—or transform—overnight either.

What’s essential to understand is that both sides of this coin—systemic corruption and collective power—exist simultaneously. They feed off each other in a way. The more corrupt and broken the system becomes, the more the collective feels the need to rise up and challenge it. And the more the collective pushes, the more the system scrambles to adapt, to survive. This push and pull is where the future will be decided.

The challenge is figuring out how to navigate this moment without falling into the extremes of either cynicism or blind optimism. Yes, the system is rotten in many ways, and it needs to change. But no, burning it all down without a plan for what comes next is not the answer. The match, the fire, the destruction—these are all part of the cycle, but they’re not the whole story. Transformation doesn’t come just from tearing things down; it comes from building something new in its place.

We have the tools to do that now in ways that we never have before. The collective power that’s growing, the connections being made across borders, across ideologies, across communities—these are the seeds of a new kind of society. A society where maybe, just maybe, profit isn’t the only metric by which we measure success. But getting there requires more than just tearing down what’s rotten. It requires vision, collaboration, and a willingness to engage in the messy, complicated work of building something better.

So, where does that leave us? In a world where both the system and the people are in flux. The rot is real, but so is the power to change it. The question isn’t whether the system will collapse—it’s whether we’re ready to step into the space left behind and build something new, something that reflects not just the greed of the few, but the potential of the many. And that’s the real challenge, isn’t it? To ignite the flame that burns away the old, without losing sight of what comes after. Because what comes next is up to us.