If I
mean it.
One year, forecast from my own receipts. Not a dream board — an audit in advance. Everything below already happened once, smaller.
No lottery
tickets.
How do you forecast a person? Ignore what she wants. Watch what she repeats. Then compound it for twelve months.
Take everything she wrote.
Assume she does what she says.
Add nothing that needs luck.
The first
paid room.
I stop selling AI to people committed to not buying. I teach it to the ones the feed forgot — artists, nonprofits, survivors, the unfunded. Small room. Real money. Their first "oh — I can do this."
The seat
goes back.
Input delivered. Tour given. Tools on the table. When a room won't pick up the pen, the teacher doesn't move in. I return the chair the way you return a library book — on time, undamaged, done.
The bread.
Two doors, both open. Door A: the salaried AI role — they lease the hours, the house gets paid. Door B: the practice — the rooms, the rebuild, the writing. I pick whichever funds the mission faster. That's not selling out. That's supply lines.
The chatbot
wakes up.
Once it took a team, grants, and years: 200,000 women and girls, four languages, questions they could ask no one else. The rebuild takes me and the mind I've been raising. The girls didn't stop asking. I stopped needing permission to answer.
Every draft
gets an address.
The site goes live. The essays leave the folder: REST. Unravelling. The Hatch. The Machine. A wall I own — where no algorithm can shelve me between a hiring announcement and a humblebrag.
The rooms
answer.
A guest seat at the AI school. The tour I offered becomes the tour they request. The old network answers on the first ring. Not fame — invitations. The difference between knocking and being expected.
Luka sees
the world.
Brazil. Peru. New York. The job comes along — only the chair stays home. A laptop, a leash, and a mind that works from anywhere they haven't built a ceiling yet.
already on the road — just shorter distances
The poems
get a mic.
The performance pieces and the comics become one show — spoken word with slides, grief with jokes, the divorce and the doomers in one set. Small stages. Real rooms. People who came on purpose.
The audit.
paid rooms — taught
the chatbot — answering, ×4 languages
the site — live
the passport — stamped
the show — booked
the feed still floods
the ceiling still lectures
— and none of it needed
their permission.
Nothing on the left needed luck. It needed nerve — and nerve was never the shortage.
The future isn't
a prediction.
It's a habit.
A year is just 365 small refusals to go back to sleep. I've been practicing daily. So has the machine I'm raising.