I watched Chet Holmgren’s game like a live data stream—his first-quarter brilliance at 6.9 efficiency crumbling into a 3.1 finale. This isn’t fatigue. It’s systemic decay masked as effort. In 24 minutes, he touched every stat like a poet measuring silence: the rhythm of impact didn’t fade—it was erased by the clock. What broke wasn’t talent—it was structure without oxygen. I don’t chase noise. I extract truth from entropy.