I had nothing to prove. No gas. No ETH. Not even 0.0001. They said: “No mint, no voice.”.

But I had… a PNG. So I screamed anyway. Not a masterpiece. Not a roadmap. Just a frame of grief. A final scream.

They said, “If you can’t mint, don’t play the game.” “Art needs backing.” “Go get a job.”

But I said nothing. I just stared at the chain, watching others mint nonsense for $200. And I laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again.

Maybe this is the last thing I could afford to make. Maybe it's just a placeholder for all the things I couldn’t afford. Or maybe it’s a grave for every untold story.

Just know: This is not hope. This is not art. This is survival.

I buried my dreams. Right here. Under this tombstone.

It reads: “Mint or Die.”

Because in this space, if you can't mint, you're already dead. No budget? No whitelist? No gas fee? Too bad.

They’ll call you lazy. They’ll tell you “go touch grass.” But the truth is: you touched it until it turned to dust.

This isn't about vision. This isn't about hype. This is about the ones who scream silently through .pngs no one mints.

So here lies my rebellion: a grave for the unfunded. a monument for the invisible.

Mint it? Don’t mint it? Doesn’t matter.

You’re standing on the remains of ambition.

This isn’t hope. This isn’t Web3. This is the funeral of the forgotten.

Mint or Die? Choose.

Rest in pieces.