In this corner of the free world—MARA, the Bitcoin miner, stands with ice in its veins and red in its ledgers.
The company, battered by market expectations, gave the markets what they always want: a flicker of hope wrapped in numbers. MARA missed earnings—again. Pity the accountants, surrendering their pencils in defeat, their calculators whiskered like mice.
And yet the stock leapt 9%, as if gravity forgot it for one fleeting Friday (perhaps gravity invests in Ethereum?). At $15.52, brokers watched the ticker with the same haunted eyes as those who once saw ration coupons traded in the gulags—an uptick and hope, so similar, so fragile.

Jefferies, that oracle of Wall Street, claims MARA will ride the wind and sunshine—solar, flared gas, whispers of bright futures. Imagine it: men once pressed by gray concrete now bask in the fluorescent glow of “sustainable energy,” if only the lights stay on until the quarterly report.
Jonathan Petersen, the analyst, points to the 114 MW wind farm with the pride of a man who’s finally fixed his roof just in time for the next hurricane. “We have energized the 25 MW micro flared gas data center!” he proclaims. Somewhere, the ghosts of engineers past laugh into their vodka.
If MARA continues to shovel cash into the fiery furnace of infrastructure, prophets say, “It will become efficient!”—a word as rare on Wall Street as it was in the frozen camps. Petersen raises his target: $16 is the new $13, but (oh comrades) hold your horses, not your breath.
Others in Bitcoin mining tremble—the icy wind of falling prices and electrifying costs batter them, some already looking longingly at the next new thing: AI, HPC, anything that isn’t just making heat and noise in a cold world.
But MARA, stubborn as an old zek, remains chained to its core. Transaction services! Mining pools! Green energy! At least it’s not making tractors for imaginary fields.
Kevin Dede at H.C. Wainwright, gazing with the eyes of a man who’s seen too many PowerPoints, repeats: “MARA stays the course. Power conversion tech.” His voice echoes in the vast, empty conference calls of profitability, his “buy” rating carrying the hope of the weary. Target: $28—a number as inspiring as any bread ration promised, but never guaranteed.
In the end, perhaps only one question matters: When the wind stops, do the miners keep running?
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2025-05-10 00:05