What am I most excited about for the future? Jesus. You want me to stare into the swirling, technicolor void and give it a name? The future is a deranged freight train barreling straight at me, wheels screaming, sparks flying, and I’m standing on the tracks laughing like a lunatic with a half-empty bottle of bourbon in one hand and a camera in the other.

I’m excited for the beautiful chaos, the strange, jittering madness of it all. The cracked highways that lead to nowhere, the people with wild eyes and dangerous ideas, the late-night monologues with my own reflection. I want to burn through the calendar pages like they’re soaked in kerosene no plan, no roadmap, just a raw, nerve-shredding plunge into whatever fever dream comes next.

The future isn’t some tidy checklist. It’s a rabid beast frothing at the mouth, and I plan to ride it bareback into the sun until my bones rattle and my teeth grind to powder. There will be sweat, blood, laughter, and the occasional police siren in the distance, but by God, I’ll be alive.

I’m not hoping for serenity. I’m praying for raw velocity for a future so bright and bizarre it melts my sunglasses to my face. The kind of unhinged, beautiful lunacy that reminds you why you’re still standing. And if I don’t make it out intact? Well, at least I’ll leave claw marks in the fabric of time.