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Now, the engine sputters. A slowdown is predicted, a crawl even. They claim it’s temporary, a pause before the next surge. A slight increase in EBITDA is forecast, but offset by ‘higher corporate costs’ – a polite way of saying more goes to those already well-fed. They offer promises of savings, of expansion projects – the Medford NGL Fractionator, the Bighorn Processing Plant – grand designs etched on paper while the foundations beneath shift and crack. These expansions, they say, will deliver prosperity. But to whom? The engineers? The managers? Or merely another layer of profit for those who already possess more than they need?

The potential, as it is invariably described, is vast. A reshaping of daily life, they promise. Processing speeds exceeding anything currently conceivable. Yet, one is compelled to wonder if this potential is not merely a phantom, a bureaucratic necessity to justify the continued allocation of resources. The very notion of “orders of magnitude greater” feels less like a statement of fact and more like a desperate attempt to ward off the inevitable questions regarding return on investment.

The filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission, dated February 4th, confirms the transaction. It appears Alpine sees something… promising. Or, perhaps, they simply enjoy a flutter. One never quite knows with these funds. The holding now represents 5.9% of their 13F reportable AUM as of December 31st, 2025. A rather significant commitment, wouldn’t you say?

A considerable portion of our investing public—some 37%, if the latest surveys are to be believed—now anticipate a decline. A most curious sentiment, is it not? To fear prosperity, to predict ruin where, for a decade past, only gains have blossomed! It is as if they expect the sun to suddenly take offense at their good fortune and withdraw its warmth. The optimists, alas, number only a modest 34%—a pitifully small chorus of cheer in a theatre rapidly filling with apprehension.

The pursuit of quick riches in the blossoming marijuana industry, a fever dream of green leaves and inflated valuations, has left many investors with little more than ashes in their hands. Even the pronouncements of presidents, those fleeting attempts to reshape reality, proved powerless against the immutable laws of market gravity. Canopy Growth, once heralded as a titan, now stands as a cautionary tale, a testament to the perils of chasing phantom profits. The air, thick with disappointment, carries the scent of burned capital. It is a scent Altria knows well, yet has somehow managed to avoid.

Buffett, bless his heart, admitted as much. And now Greg Abel is at the helm. A perfectly nice man, I’m sure. I once spent an entire flight next to someone who managed a mid-sized paperclip factory, and he seemed equally competent. The question isn’t competence, it’s scale. It’s the quiet desperation of having so much money that even good investments feel… underwhelming.

The banks offer about 1.5%, maybe 1.6%, these days. A pittance. Enough to maybe offset the rising cost of regret. They’ll tell you it’s safe. And technically, it is. Safe from a lot of things. Not safe from time, or inflation, or the general absurdity of existence. But insured. That’s something.

It’s gone from being the dependable, slightly dusty software provider your dad’s office used, to the darling of Wall Street, and then, in what felt like a particularly swift plummet, to the poster child for high-risk AI spending. Honestly, it’s exhausting just keeping up with the narrative. It’s currently down 54.9% from its peak last September. Which, if you’re a glass-half-empty type – and let’s be honest, after a few years in this business, you tend to be – feels less like a buying opportunity and more like a warning.

It’s easy to forget, looking at the polished floors and endless rows of goods, that this isn’t about prosperity, but about volume. McMillon inherited a struggle, a company buffeted by the winds of change, Amazon a gathering storm. The price-to-earnings ratio, a measure of hope, was down to fifteen, a farmer’s field left fallow. He coaxed life back into it, turning Walmart into something resembling all things to all people, spreading roots internationally, and offering a wage that didn’t quite shame. He understood the need to keep the hands that stacked the shelves from shaking with hunger.