The spectacle of global markets performing a synchronized swan dive into a shallow pool of reality is, quite frankly, the only honest thing to happen this quarter. One looks at the Nikkei’s dramatic collapse or the Nasdaq’s sudden realization that AI-driven vaporware might not be a sustainable economic pillar, and one can’t help but offer a slow, solitary clap from the balcony. We call it 'market carnage,' a term that suggests something visceral and bloody, when in fact it is merely the collective realization that we have been trading magic beans for imaginary cows for far too long. It is the predictable tantrum of a financial system that has finally been told 'no' by the laws of physics.

And then, there is the orange specter himself. Donald Trump, a man whose skin tone remains the only thing in the world currently resisting a correction, sits amidst the wreckage with the serene indifference of a toddler who has just set fire to the curtains and is now wondering when lunch will be served. The financial press is in a state of high-pitched hysteria because the former president seems 'untroubled' by the erasure of trillions in paper wealth. They call it 'scary.' I find it rather rhythmic. It is the sound of a man who understands that in a burning theater, the best seat is the one closest to the exit, or perhaps the one where you’re the one who sold the matches. His lack of concern isn't a sign of stability; it’s the profound apathy of a man who views the entire global economy as a peripheral character in his own personal psychodrama.

The tragedy—or the comedy, depending on how much Pinot Noir you’ve consumed—is the sheer panic of the 'experts.' These are the same technocrats who assured us that the era of low interest rates would last forever, like a perpetual summer in a particularly dull corner of the Mediterranean. Now that the cold front has arrived, they are baffled that their spreadsheets aren’t providing warmth. They look to the American political theater for a sign of stability and find only a choice between a man who thinks the economy is a series of 'vibes' and a man who thinks it’s a reality television ratings chart. Both sides are idiots, of course, but one side at least has the decency to look frightened while the ship goes down. Trump, by contrast, is busy checking if the iceberg can be branded with his name.

From my vantage point in a civilized corner of the continent, watching the American empire fret over its fluctuating portfolio is like watching a parvenu realize his gold-plated faucets are leaking lead. The absurdity is systemic. We have built a global civilization on the belief that if enough people agree a digital token is worth a house, then it is. When the agreement falters, we call it a 'crisis.' It isn't a crisis; it's a moment of clarity. The 'carnage' is simply the sound of the hallucination popping. The fact that the world’s leading superpower is currently being led—or potentially led—by someone who treats a global fiscal meltdown with the same gravity as a botched spray tan is exactly what we deserve for our collective hubris.

Trump’s lack of concern is the most honest reaction available. He understands, perhaps subconsciously, that the system is a theater of the absurd where the script is written by panicking algorithms and the audience is too busy filming themselves to notice the roof is falling in. While the Davos set clutches their pearls and whispers about 'volatility' and 'macroeconomic headwinds,' Trump is likely calculating how this affects the price of a club sandwich at Mar-a-Lago. It is a masterclass in narcissistic zen. He doesn’t need to be troubled; the trouble is for the little people who still believe that the numbers on their E-Trade account correspond to real-world objects.

The markets will, of course, 'recover,' which is a polite way of saying the hallucination will be re-administered. The central banks will rush in with their syringes of liquidity, the pundits will find a new set of jargon to explain why the collapse didn't actually happen, and we will all return to the blissful state of pretending that numbers on a screen are a substitute for a functioning civilization. But for one brief, glorious moment, the mask slipped. We saw the fragility, the sheer, staggering incompetence of it all. We saw a world where the only thing more volatile than the S&P 500 is the temperament of the man who wants to lead the world’s largest economy from a golf cart. It is not carnage; it is a long-overdue accounting. And as for Trump’s indifference? It is the only sane response to a madness we all helped build. We are witnessing the bankruptcy of an idea, and he is the only person present who has already filed the paperwork.