No one left the cake out in the rain

Somewhere there is a guy named Jim and he makes bread. He’s raising two little babies to make it. They’ve got their fingers in the dough already. Jim makes the real thing. You could sustain yourself on it for a few months. Jim is the kind of guy who’ll step in at the last minute to make and deliver his product for a wedding or some other celebration when somebody else punked out. He’s always ready. You don’t have to charm him or wheedle him to get him to take over. He gives you the impression he’s going to make bread forever. His bread isn’t something that gives you a good first bite and then fades away to nothing as you get further into it. It’s deep and rich all the way down. Jim is against the tide. His bread is going to endure long after the last fake food is gone. He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t have to. He’s planted deep in his work. In all his time, he’s only taken on a few men to help him. He taught them from scratch. Any one of them could have started his own business, but they’ve all stayed with Jim. Because he’s the North Star. And as much as they’ve learned, he knows more. Once in a while, Jim takes off and walks miles to look at his town and the people. He knows they’re heading into worse days, tighter days. The government is becoming more bloated. The idea of honest work for work’s sake is draining away. More people are acting like victims. He turns around, walks back to his place, and makes bread.

When you take a few bites of his sourdough, you know this whole collectivist glob bullshit worm-eaten upside down civilization is going to collapse of its own weight.