The modern man is adrift among the great men of history. He is a shell of his father.

The pressure that used to shape men is gone. War. Hardship. The world no longer hammers him into form.

Comfort consumed him entirely. There is no friction left in his life. The signal that should have shaped him got dropped.

What instruction did he get instead? Three watered-down sources.

His father's playbook, already a copy of his grandfather's. Hollywood. Whatever he absorbed from a traditional male job, if he had one.

Outside those scraps, he is on his own. No tradition acts on him. No religion. No reality.

He is a formless thing in a shapeless world. He needs a blueprint.

The blueprint exists. We start here.
