On February 21st, Attorney General Pam Bondi, with all the solemnity of a bureaucrat performing decency, announced to the American people that the entire Epstein Client List was "on her desk." Not under seal. Not trapped in the purgatory of red tape. Tangibly, allegedly, within reach. She claimed preparations were underway to release it. For a fleeting moment, it appeared as if the ramparts of power might crack,; that perhaps the arc of justice might briefly defy its curvature toward convenience.
But now? The list, like so many damning truths in the hands of institutional power, has apparently ceased to exist.
Just like that. Gone. Like it was never real. Like AG Bondi never stood at the podium and said what she said.
How dreadfully convenient. How staggeringly unoriginal.
One might be forgiven for thinking that this was a tale written by Kafka and co-directed by Orwell and Machiavelli. First, the public is offered a taste of accountability — a morsel dangled just close enough to inspire false hope — and then, with bureaucratic sleight of hand, the whole premise is vanished, uninvestigated, unexplained, and unacknowledged.
And what of Jeffrey Epstein, the man whose black book was said to carry the fingerprints of billionaires, politicians, technocrats, royals, and media moguls? We are now expected, with bovine obedience, to accept the fairytale that he, in a maximum-security cell, under suspiciously failed surveillance, ‘took his own life.’ End of story. Curtain closed. Nothing more to see here, citizen.
There was no serious investigation. No independent inquiry. No forensic pursuit of the names, the networks, or the beneficiaries. Only silence; the kind bought, brokered, and bargained for by those with enough power to scrub history in real-time.
Understand this: You are being gaslit by design. They are not merely lying to you. They are testing how much contradiction your memory can tolerate. They are feeding you contradiction as doctrine, confusion as patriotism, and apathy as maturity.
This is not an oversight. This isn't a big, it's a feature.
We are governed — if that’s even the appropriate verb — by a cartel of careerist cowards and plutocratic enablers whose only consistent principle is the preservation of their own impunity. These are not public servants. They are stewards of a rot that metastasizes upward.
Justice, in their hands, is not blind — it’s gagged, hobbled, and caged.
Ask yourself: Who profits from your fatigue? From your shrug? From the slow corrosion of your standards for truth?
Because the moment you stop asking questions is the moment they win. And they know it.
So again, I ask: Are we Great yet?
Because greatness does not look like sealed evidence, sanitized suicides, and an obedient press corps whose collective investigative impulse extends no further than the nearest cocktail reception.
There is still time to reclaim your soul from the static. Still time to reject the enforced amnesia they peddle as normalcy.
But the hour is late. And history, when it is finally written — if it is allowed to be written — will not forgive those who saw the truth and chose to remain silent.
