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.

He lives in abundance. Food, safety, shelter. The instruction manual is missing.

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.
