Friday, October 9th, 2026

WEIGH-IN, 05:40. Bloomberg's index says I gained eighty-seven billion dollars overnight, and I did not feed. I checked: the bathroom scale reads what it has read since 1803, the mirror reads nothing, and the only thing in this house that got heavier is a number on a screen in a timezone that wasn't awake yet.

Second richest on the planet, and I have never been hungrier.

Strangers wrote Blue Origin a check at a hundred and forty billion and the index re-weighed me by it, so twenty-six years of pouring my own blood into Cape Canaveral turns out to have been a deposit, accruing, and nobody informed the wound. Comms wants a statement; I typed "humbled," deleted it, typed "grateful," and watched the cursor blink with the patience of the makeup woman's hand on Wednesday, warm, then withdrawn. Three centuries of doctrine say you get heavier by eating, and this morning a spreadsheet got heavier by looking at me while an analyst at Coatue swallowed the calorie I was owed.

Day 1 is no longer a rotation; it is a mark-to-market, and the mark is hungry.