In the beginning there was the Charge. Every bull on Solana lowered its horns and ran — green candle, red candle, didn't matter. They charged into walls. They charged off cliffs. They charged straight into each other and called it a strategy.
One bull didn't. While the herd stampeded, he pulled on a sweater, laced up his sneakers, slid his hooves into his pockets, and watched the chart do its thing — up, down, sideways — without flinching once.
They called him cooked. They called him ngmi. He just nodded slow and said: "we chill."
When the dust settled and the chargers had nuked their bags, the Chill Bull was still standing. Same sweater. Same sneakers. Same face. Unbothered. Eternal. There's no roadmap, because he's already where he's going: nowhere, chilling.