You can almost smell the living room again—the worn couch, the soft hum of the radio, your mom pausing to listen as Paul Harvey spun a scenario that felt too extreme to ever be real. He spoke of a slow unraveling, not through sudden disaster, but through a thousand small compromises. Back then, it sounded like a cautionary tale for someone else, somewhere else, someday.

Now the someday is here, and the story feels uncomfortably close. You see it in the way outrage is entertainment, in how truth bends to fit whatever sells, in how faith is often repackaged as branding instead of conviction. Harvey’s words don’t just predict; they prod. They force a question you can’t ignore: if we’ve drifted this far while barely noticing, what happens if we keep pretending not to see? The prophecy isn’t the point. Our response is.