I don’t want a billion dollars. I wouldn’t trade places with a single billionaire. I’m young. I’m ripped. I sleep like a machine. I train hard. I control my time, my energy, and where I live. I’m not solving for more. I’m solving for mastery of life. What is the Sovereign Artiste? -Ripped physique, year-round -Sleep so deep I wake up reborn -Testosterone in the 800s — natural, free, surging -Sun on my face -Deep work from 11am to 2pm, then I’m done -Bitcoin compounding in the background -Mojo humming -A woman who’s visibly lit up just being near me -Full autonomy over every hour of my day The Sovereign Artiste has solved for time. The rarest, most misunderstood form of wealth. I don’t schedule calls. I don’t “circle back.” I don’t do Slack. If I want to disappear to Paris, Costa Rica, or the South of Spain? I go. No permission. No friction. Just movement. I don’t chase money. Money comes to me. While I walk. While I train. While I sip espresso, listening to Eckhart Tolle, staring into the sea. I don’t sit in board meetings. I’m in my 911 Turbo S, top down, flying down the coast Blasting Dalida - Paroles, Paroles Nothing in my head but sunlight and music. Dinner? -Dry-aged striploin, seared hard -Potato bravas, crisp with smoked paprika -A Cadillac margarita Across the table: a woman who looks like she belongs in a perfume ad Most billionaires? Overworked. Overcommitted. Bloated. Bland. Testosterone in the 300s. Kids don’t text back. Ten mansions. Not one that feels like home. Me? 850 T. 7.2% body fat. Bitcoin compounding while I sleep. Beach. A woman who can’t stop looking at me. I am the Sovereign Artiste. And the men chasing 9 and 10 figures? They’re just trying to feel what I feel every damn day.