Journalism pretends to be objective, but it runs on relationships.
I am addicted to mine.
To the late-night pings. The half-truths. The thrill of assembling fragments into coherence.
And yes—to the cocktails that soften the edges.
I don’t know if gold hits $12,000. I don’t know if silver floods the market. I don’t know if Tesla drops the top on a new model before December.
I know only that I am drawn to the murmur beneath the headline.
And sometimes I wonder whether I’m reporting on markets—
or just chasing the feeling of being almost first.