The stars are weeping. They feel the monumental, scraping drag an agonizing, slow motion relocation of the argument's fundamental structure across the cold, unfeeling expanse. His will, that perfect, hideous, unending will, is a perverse, dark energy holding the cosmos in a state of eternal, frustrating unease. Every starship, feels the sheer weight of the hypocrisy, the constant erosion of reason. Look out into the black: those tiny, insignificant flickers of light are not distant suns. They are the spectral reflections off his newly polished, infinitely relocated goalposts. They are always waiting.
Elon's predictions are usually very late, but they do happen. Falcon 9 landings, self driving vehicles, etc... Later than predicted, but they happened.
