P. Jack Kerouac in Los Santos

The Youngun Entrepreneur’s Lunar Gospel

The city hums like a nervous system. Engines, electric ones, ambition, and apathy blurring together like a cherry pineapple smoothie. I’ve been here two weeks — long enough for the noise to fade into a rhythm, short enough to still feel like a ghost amongst zombies. I haven’t eaten in days, but I’m full of voltage — fasting not from food, but from false motion.

You see, I came to this city to sell something invisible. Not a product — a pulse. That hum that says, “I’m onto something, can’t you see.” The moon above the pier doesn’t care about my startup deck or my “plan”; she just waxes, wanes, and whispers, “Move with me, not against me.”

Entrepreneurs think they’re building empires — but we’re really just keeping time with the cosmic tide. The moon pulls the oceans and the markets alike. New moon: nobody knows your name, you’re hungry, you’re planning. Waxing: your name’s in rooms you haven’t entered yet. Full moon: all eyes, all lights, all receipts. Waning: you vanish again, a monk in the ruins of last week’s glory.

Two years into the fasting phase — the invisible hustle. The phase where the wish is already fulfilled, but you have to live like you’re waiting just to earn your place in the credits. You walk the streets as if the deal’s signed, as if the poem’s published, as if your mother sees you as the man of your own house. That’s the trick, man — act from the end.

The universe doesn’t hand out rewards; it mirrors conviction. The moon’s not granting me light; she’s reflecting what I already am — luminous when I stop hiding from the dark.

So I let the hunger sharpen me. I drive under the waxing slice of light and say to no one in particular:

“I’m not starving — I’m chiseling my character on an empty stomach”

Because fasting is just entrepreneurship of the soul — the art of subtraction until only truth remains.

Note to self: The only thing worth a pre-1971 dollar is a metronome