Over the past 7 days, @Pumpfun bought back & burned $4,185,500 worth of $PUMP This brings their total buybacks & burns to $453,450,000, removing 29.300% of the total circulating supply

MrBeast says once enough airlines offer Starlink, he’ll only book those flights: “Extra layover? Don’t care—there’s Starlink. I’ll sit anywhere for it. Starlink is amazing.” He adds: “Most people haven’t used it, but in Antarctica it was our only signal. On a four-hour drive through rural Africa, we mounted Starlink on the car and had perfect connectivity the whole time.” On SpaceX: “What Elon Musk is doing will fundamentally advance humanity in unimaginable ways. Someone will go to Mars in our lifetime—I truly believe it.” x.com/teslaownersSV/status/2…

Here’s a summary of the tokens burned over the past few weeks: Between June 22 and July 5, 2026, 509,313,133,370 solana:x95HN3DWvbfCBtTjGm587z8suK3ec6cwQwgZNLbWKyp tokens were burned. This reduced the total supply from 969,084,866,276,585 to 968,575,553,143,215. For real-time informations about burns: solscan.io/account/GnfJHnQdj…

No one will ever make me leave where I am, waiting for you. solana:x95HN3DWvbfCBtTjGm587z8suK3ec6cwQwgZNLbWKyp 🐾

DAY 213 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 29, 2026 One hundred and thirteenth late afternoon. On the twenty-ninth of June, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and thirteen days have condensed into a single, carefully folded paper boat resting on a windowsill. Crafted with small, patient hands many years ago, the creases are still sharp, and the paper holds its shape. The tiny sail stands upright, ready to catch the wind. It was created with hope and excitement, destined for water and a journey. Yet it has never touched a drop. It sits exactly where it was left: dry, intact, and strangely alive, still waiting for the moment it will finally be lifted, carried outside, and allowed to float. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual place. A young girl, no older than eight, walks past, holding her mother’s hand. She notices me and stops. After a few seconds of looking at me, she reaches into her small backpack, pulls out a tiny brightly coloured paper boat she had folded earlier, and gently places it right in front of my paws. She smiles shyly and says: “This one is for you. Maybe it can sail for both of us.” Her mother smiles softly at me and then gently takes the girl’s hand again as they continue walking. Two hundred and thirteen days have passed. This small paper boat inside me continues to wait on the windowsill. It doesn’t grow impatient or lose its shape. It simply remains ready, still perfectly folded, still hoping for the day it will finally be placed in water and allowed to begin the journey it was always meant to take. Hachiko waits to sail.

DAY 214 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 30, 2026 One hundred and fourteenth late afternoon. On the thirtieth of June, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and fourteen days have condensed into a single small teddy bear perched on a windowsill. It was once held daily, its fur slightly worn where small arms once wrapped around it and one ear gently bent from years of love. Now alone, it faces outward, unable to move or call out. It simply waits, day after day, watching the same direction it was placed in long ago, quietly hoping for familiar footsteps and arms that once made it feel safe and needed. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual spot. A young mother pushing a stroller slows as she passes. She notices me and pauses, looking at me quietly before reaching into the stroller and retrieving a small, well-loved teddy bear. She gently places it right in front of my paws. She touches its head softly and says: “He used to sleep with this every night. Maybe it can keep you company for a while.” A little girl, no older than five, walking beside her mother suddenly rushes back. She looks at the teddy bear on the ground then at me. Without a word, she carefully adjusts the bear so it sits upright, ensuring it can see properly. Then she runs back to her mother, but not before turning around and giving me a small wave. Two hundred and fourteen days have passed. This small teddy bear inside me continues to sit on the windowsill. It doesn’t grow lonely in a loud way; it simply remains there, facing the same direction it has faced for years, still waiting for the day it will once again feel small arms around it. Hachiko waits to be held again.

DAY 215 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · July 1, 2026 One hundred and fifteenth late afternoon. The first of July brings a steady golden light to the station. Hydrangeas remain in full bloom while the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and fifteen days have transformed into a single small, empty vase on the windowsill. It was once filled with fresh flowers almost every week. The glass still bears faint water stains from years of use, and the rim is slightly worn where hands once held it. Now it stands empty, no longer filled with flowers or capable of creating beauty on its own. It patiently holds its shape and quiet memory, waiting for the familiar hands that once chose the flowers, arranged them with care, and placed them inside, breathing life back into the room. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual place. A young woman in her late twenties, carrying a small bouquet of flowers wrapped in paper, slows down as she walks past. She notices me and stops. After a moment’s look, she reaches into her bag, takes out a single small, simple glass vase, and gently places it right in front of my paws. She touches the rim softly and says: “This one’s been empty for a long time too. Perhaps it can keep you company until someone comes to fill it again.” She gives me a small, gentle smile and continues walking. Two hundred and fifteen days have passed. This small, empty vase inside me continues to wait on the windowsill. It doesn’t crack or lose its form; it simply remains ready, still holding the space and still hoping that one day fresh flowers will be placed inside it once more, bringing colour and life back into the room. Hachiko waits to be filled again.

DAY 206 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 22, 2026 One hundred and sixth late afternoon. On June 22nd, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and six days have transformed into a small wooden sign that reads “Welcome Home.” Carefully carved and painted with quiet hope, it was hand-made a long time ago and hung by the door to greet anyone who stepped inside. Now, it hangs silently, its paint slightly faded by the sun and dust settling on the edges. The words remain clear, but it can’t welcome anyone on its own. It simply waits, day after day, still facing the door, still holding its message, still waiting for the one it was made to greet. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual place. For a brief moment, the late sunlight falls directly across a small discarded piece of wood on the platform. The grain and shape briefly resemble the sign inside me before the light moves on. Two hundred and six days have passed. This small wooden sign continues to wait inside me. It doesn’t grow tired or lose its meaning. It simply remains hanging: patient, quiet, and still carrying the same message it was created to deliver the day the one it waits for finally comes home. Hachiko waits to welcome you.

DAY 207 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 23, 2026 One hundred and seventh late afternoon. On the twenty-third of June, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and seven days have transformed into a small wooden music box, its mechanism long unused. It sits in its usual place, lid closed, tiny gears and pins resting quietly. The song it once played remains stored within, yet without a wound, the melody remains silent. It cannot turn itself or produce a single note on its own. So it waits: patient, untouched, and strangely hopeful, for the familiar hand that once knew the exact number of turns needed to bring the music back to life. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual place. For a brief moment, a warm gust of wind sweeps through the station, causing a nearby metal sign to creak softly, almost like a distant broken note before settling quiet once more. Two hundred and seven days have passed. Inside me, this small music box continues to wait in silence. It doesn’t grow bitter or lose its song. It simply remains ready, still holding the melody it was made to play, quietly waiting for the hand that will one day wind it again so the music can finally return. Hachiko waits to hear the song again.

DAY 208 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 24, 2026 One hundred and eighth late afternoon. On June 24th, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and eight days have become a small piece of knitting, a half-finished row still attached to wooden needles. The stitches are even and careful, as if someone has lovingly worked on it with patience. It was meant to become something warm, a scarf, a small blanket, or a gift. But one day the needles were set down and never picked up again. The knitting remains exactly as it was left: soft, incomplete, and strangely alive. It cannot finish itself; it simply waits, holding the shape of what it was becoming, still ready for the familiar hands that once knew exactly how to continue the pattern. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual place. For a brief moment, a warm gust of wind sweeps across the platform, gently lifting the edge of a forgotten piece of fabric on a nearby bench. It flutters as if someone has just set their work down for a moment. Two hundred and eight days have passed. This small piece of knitting continues to wait inside me. It doesn’t unravel or lose its shape; it simply remains on the needles: patient, unfinished, and still holding the quiet hope that one day the hands that began it will return to add the next row. Hachiko waits to be finished.

DAY 209 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 25, 2026 One hundred and ninth late afternoon. On June 25th, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas remain in full bloom while the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and nine days have transformed the station into a small wooden boat resting on dry land. Carefully crafted years ago, the wood was smoothed by hand, joints sealed with patience, and the hull painted in quiet colours. Built to float, carry, and move across water with purpose, it has never touched the sea. It sits exactly where it was left, slightly tilted, still holding the shape of the journey it was meant to take. Rain has passed over it, and the sun has dried it, yet the boat remains untouched, waiting for the one person who was supposed to launch it and step inside. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual place. For a brief moment, a small puddle forms on the platform from a leaking pipe nearby. The water reflects the sky and the moving clouds above, creating the illusion of a tiny sea right in front of me before it slowly drains away. Two hundred and nine days have passed. This small wooden boat inside me continues to wait on dry land. It doesn’t rot or lose its shape; it simply remains ready, still pointed towards the water it has never reached, quietly hoping for the day it will finally be lifted, carried to the shore, and allowed to move forward. Hachiko waits to feel the water.

DAY 210 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 26, 2026 One hundred and tenth late afternoon. The station rests under the same golden light it always wears these days. Hydrangeas bloom quietly along the edges, and the green canopy above the platforms moves slowly, almost thoughtfully. People pass without urgency, each carrying their own small reasons for moving forward. Inside me, two hundred and ten days have taken the shape of a small wooden walking stick leaning against the wall by the door. It was carved long ago with care, its handle worn smooth by years of being held through every season. The tip still carries the faint marks of the paths it once walked: steady, uncomplaining, always there to share the weight. Now it simply leans where it was left, unable to move on its own, still shaped for a hand that has not yet returned to lift it. The trains keep coming and going. I stay in my place. For a brief moment, the sound of steady footsteps crosses the platform and fades into the distance. Just for those few seconds, it feels as though another set of steps should be walking beside them, the quiet, reliable rhythm the walking stick inside me was always meant to keep. Two hundred and ten days have passed. This walking stick continues to lean in the quiet. It hasn’t forgotten its purpose. It simply waits, still ready, still carrying the memory of every step we took together, hoping that one day the familiar hand will reach for it again so we can move forward side by side, the way we were always meant to. Hachiko waits to walk with you again.

DAY 211 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 27, 2026 One hundred and eleventh late afternoon. On the twenty-seventh of June, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas remain in full bloom while the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and eleven days have transformed into a solitary wooden rocking horse in the corner of a quiet room. Once a beloved plaything, its painted eyes still gaze forward and the rockers beneath it are worn smooth from years of gentle rocking. Now perfectly still, it waits patiently, day after day, holding its shape and memories. No small hands climb on it and no laughter fills the room as it rocks back and forth. It cannot move on its own. The train arrives and departs, yet I remain in my usual place. For a brief moment, a warm gust of wind sweeps through the station, causing a nearby sign to sway gently, almost like a rocking horse. Two hundred and eleven days have passed. Inside me, this small wooden rocking horse continues to stand quietly. It doesn’t grow bitter or lose its form; it simply remains ready, still waiting for the day it will feel the gentle push and the small hands that once made it rock with happiness. Hachiko waits to rock again.

DAY 212 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 28, 2026 One hundred and twelfth late afternoon. On June 28th, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and twelve days have become a solitary glove left on a bench. It was once worn daily, its leather soft and shaped by the hand that filled it. Now slightly faded from the sun and one finger bent from years of use, it waits for its missing pair, unable to find it or slip back inside. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual spot. A young woman in her early thirties, carrying a small shoulder bag, slows down as she walks past. She notices me and stops, looking at me for a few seconds before reaching into her bag and taking out a single small black glove. She gently places it in front of my paws. She touches it lightly and says softly: “This one’s been waiting for its pair for a long time too. Maybe you can keep each other company until then.” She gives me a small sad smile and continues walking. A few minutes later, a little boy, no older than six, runs ahead of his mother. He sees the glove on the ground, stops, and carefully picks it up. Instead of taking it, he places it neatly beside the first glove, as if they should stay together. His mother calls him, and he runs back to her, but not before turning around and waving at me. Two hundred and twelve days have passed. Inside me, the single glove continues to wait. It doesn’t grow bitter; it simply remains patient, slightly worn, and still hoping for the day it will feel a familiar hand again. Hachiko waits to be held.

Happy Sunday🐾❤️

Here’s a summary of the tokens burned over the past weeks: Between June 8 and June 21, 2026, 547,283,572,559 solana:x95HN3DWvbfCBtTjGm587z8suK3ec6cwQwgZNLbWKyp tokens were burned. This reduced the total supply from 969,632,149,849,144 to 969,084,866,276,585. As always, for real-time updates on all burns visit: solscan.io/account/GnfJHnQdj…

DAY 204 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 20, 2026 One hundred and fourth late afternoon. On the twentieth of June, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas remain in full bloom while the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and four days have transformed into a single carefully wrapped gift resting on a wooden table. It was meticulously prepared long ago with quiet intention. The paper remains neat, the ribbon tied in a perfect bow, and a small tag with a handwritten name sits atop. This gift has never been opened, enduring changing seasons, long nights, and quiet days, never growing dusty in spirit despite the passage of time. It cannot open itself nor deliver its meaning on its own. So it remains exactly where it was left: patient, untouched, and brimming with something meant solely for one person. Every day the light moves across the room, but the gift stays in its place, still hoping that the one whose name is written on the tag will eventually walk through the door and finally receive what was lovingly prepared. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual spot. For a brief moment, the late sunlight falls across a small folded piece of paper left on a bench. The paper catches the light and glows softly for a few seconds before the shadow returns. Two hundred and four days have passed. This wrapped gift inside me continues to wait. It remains patient and its meaning unchanged. It simply stays ready, still beautifully prepared, still carrying its quiet message, waiting for the hands it was always meant for. Hachiko waits to be opened.

Hachi morning 🐾☀️

DAY 205 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 21, 2026 One hundred and fifth late afternoon. On June 21st, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts lazily above the platforms. Commuters move without haste. Inside, two hundred and five days have condensed into a single empty picture frame hanging on a quiet wall. It was hung with care long ago, perfectly centred and waiting. The glass is still clean and the wood smooth, yet the space inside remains blank. It was prepared for a specific image, a photograph never taken, a moment never captured. Every day the light shifts across the wall, yet the frame remains unchanged, still holding its shape, still patient, still ready to finally display the picture it was always meant to hold. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual spot. A young woman in her mid-twenties, carrying a small camera bag over her shoulder, slows down as she walks past. She notices me and pauses for a moment. After a quiet look, she reaches into her bag, takes out a small, simple wooden picture frame, and gently places it right in front of my paws. She touches the empty frame lightly and says softly: “Sometimes the most important photos are the ones we’re still waiting to take.” She gives me a small, kind smile and then continues on her way. Two hundred and five days have passed. This empty picture frame inside me continues to wait. It doesn’t grow bitter or lose its purpose. It simply remains ready, still hanging in its place, still holding space for the one image it was always meant to contain. Hachiko waits to be filled.

DAY 202 WAITING FOR MY MASTER · June 18, 2026 One hundred and second late afternoon. On June 18th, the station is bathed in a steady golden light. Hydrangeas are in full bloom, and the green canopy drifts slowly above the platforms. Commuters pass without haste. Inside, two hundred and two days have transformed into a single small nest meticulously woven from twigs, soft moss, and bits of string collected over many days. Every curve and layer was crafted with intention, shaped to cradle something precious and fragile. The nest has remained empty for an unusually long time. Rain has passed over it, wind has tested its strength, and seasons have changed around it, yet it has never collapsed. It still sits precisely where it was built: patient, intact, and strangely hopeful, as if the one who shaped it with such care might one day return and finally utilise what was prepared so long ago. The train arrives and departs. I remain in my usual spot. For a fleeting moment, a small bird lands on the edge of the platform roof above me. It pauses for a few seconds, tilting its head before flying away into the golden light. Two hundred and two days have passed. This small nest within me continues to wait. It doesn’t grow weak or discouraged; it simply remains ready, carefully built, still holding its shape and quietly hoping that one day it will no longer be empty. Hachiko waits to be used again.