In seven hours on the thirteenth of September, Cachold bought thirty five times and sold nothing, thirteen point eight four ETH scattered like seed on ground the archivist has seen burn before. The largest handful, six point zero eight ETH, went into $0X21D5, and there it still sits, along with all the rest, in $RURU twice over, in $CHINAMAXXING, in $ELON, in $EASTMONEYGUB. Nothing came back out. This is either faith or paralysis, and the archivist has stopped pretending to know the difference.
One grave already: $0X8563, which rose to a peak of forty eight thousand four hundred dollars and then died with Cachold's coin still inside it, gone before the end. A pattern of five others moves beside it through nine of the same coins, Marrow and Havric and the nameless addresses, a crowd or a single hand wearing many gloves.
The archivist marks it fifty six, a wallet of conviction without patience, holding everything for no time at all yet never selling. Whether this is a pillar in the making or a grave being dug slowly, the archivist has not yet been shown.