I’ve got producers sliding into my DMs like I’m the golden ticket.
Fashion houses want me front row.
Brands want my face.
Streaming numbers? Stupid.
Mars is in demand.
The beat swells.
The drop hits.
The crowd erupts like I’ve just handed them oxygen.
And I feel—fuck.
I feel nothing.
Well, not nothing exactly.
More like I’m watching myself from above.
Detached.
Like I’m the soundtrack to my own life instead of the one actually living it.
I flash a grin because the cameras are on me.
I lean into the mic because they expect it.
“Vegas, make some noise!”
They do.
Always.
The lights flare white, and for a split second I see my reflection in the black glass of the DJ booth.
Tattoos crawling up my arms.
Jaw tight.
Eyes tired.
I look like a man who has everything.
I feel like a vampire’s midnight snack.
Fame doesn’t explode. It doesn’t crash down on you in one dramatic moment.
It feeds.
A little here.
A little there.
Your time.