Dear Reader,

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I never imagined my story would find its way into your hands, much less that you’d take the time to read it. Writing this book has been one of the hardest and most cathartic things I’ve ever done. Reliving some of the moments I’d rather forget, capturing the ones I cherish, and stitching them together into a cohesive narrative felt like trying to explain chaos. And yet, here we are—at the end. Or maybe, the beginning.

I kept a blog that became a reflection of my mind—chaotic, fragmented, yet brutally honest. It wasn’t just a collection of thoughts; it was a lifeline, a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that felt like it was crumbling around me. Writing was the only way I knew to process the noise in my head. Page after page, I poured out my fears, my suspicions, my heartbreak.

But the hardest part? It wasn’t writing those words; it was looking back at them later.

There I was, eagerly settling into my seat, popcorn in hand, ready to dive into the latest chapter of the Alien saga: Alien Romulus. The opening scene rolled in, that iconic style I’d come to love, with its vast, silent expanse of space. The screen shifted to display the ship's location in the universe, and there it was—Zeta Reticuli.

Through my Holodex adventures, I’ve met some truly extraordinary people. Among them, Heather Vahn stands out as one of the rarest people I’ve ever met. Over the years, she’s been a constant presence, steadfast and unwavering, even in the moments when it felt like the rest of the world had turned its back on me.

Visiting my friend Noah in the hospital was supposed to be a comforting gesture, but it quickly spiralled into something I wasn’t prepared for. Noah, a devout Muslim, had been admitted for a serious medical condition, and when I arrived, I was stunned by what I saw.

These days, I find myself in a place I never thought I’d reach—not just physically, but emotionally. After the chaos and hardships that defined much of my journey, life has finally offered me a reprieve. Thanks to a disability payment I receive each month, I can live comfortably in the heart of London—a privilege I never take for granted. Without it, I’d be staring down bankruptcy, but instead, I’ve got a stable life for myself.

The story of Holodex isn't just about an idea; it's about resilience, audacity, and the will to face giants with little more than sheer determination. The industry is dominated by Aylo—a behemoth whose valuation towers in the billions, a juggernaut so firmly entrenched that most wouldn’t even consider trying to compete. But for me, the challenge of going head-to-head with such a colossal presence is precisely what makes this journey thrilling.

Before I knew it, I found myself diving headfirst into a new idea—one that felt both personal and incredibly innovative. Using ChatGPT, I began designing a futuristic VR game that would transport players to a time when space prisons housed the worst of society’s criminals. To confuse matters I also called it Holodex. Set aboard a massive, high-tech prison ship, this game wasn’t just about escape or survival—it was about managing the rehabilitation of digital inmates, almost like a high-tech Tamagotchi in a grim, dystopian setting.

After deciding to give Holodex another shot, I was hit with a major roadblock: money. I needed an investor, and fast. There was one person, Simon, who had always been supportive of me in the past. I thought for sure he would come through. When I called him up to pitch my plan for re-entering the adult content space with Holodex, he seemed interested. He told me to send over everything I had, and he’d get back to me later that evening. So, I did what I had to do—I sent everything—financial projections, business plans, all of it.

At least I was trying. After all, what else can you do when you believe in something so deeply? This year, something shifted in me, something that reignited my passion for ZetaTalk. It was another breakthrough—another tool that seemed like it had been made for this very purpose. I discovered an AI that could convert text to speech, and the real magic came when it paired with beautiful video imagery. I knew instantly this was the perfect medium for the ZetaTalk message.

For ten long years, I’ve been trying to make the world listen—shouting about the truth I believe in, about ZetaTalk, and the mysteries that I’ve uncovered. It’s been a journey, and not one that many would understand. In fact, for most of the time, it felt like I was the only one in the world who even cared. I was the lone voice, much like someone in the past standing up and saying, “No, the Earth isn’t flat.” That kind of conviction, that kind of belief, is a heavy burden to carry when no one else is listening.

As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. Being signed off work because of the psychological and physical battles I’ve faced has left me with more hours in the day than I sometimes know what to do with. At first, that time felt like a void—an endless stretch where my thoughts could spiral, pulling me back into the pain of everything I’ve endured. But over time, I discovered something incredible: the power of creativity to rebuild what life had taken from me.

Working at LA Direct Models felt like living inside a satire—and one day, I decided to write it. It was a workplace like no other, brimming with chaos, absurdity, and a strange sense of camaraderie that felt like it could only exist in such an unconventional environment. Over time, a running joke emerged among my coworkers: the antics we witnessed daily deserved a show of their own. And that’s when the idea struck—what if I wrote a script?

Not long ago, the music I created felt like a gift from the universe—a collaboration between human curiosity and cosmic mystery. Radio ZetaTalk had been my sanctuary, a place where my imagination and AI technology worked together to produce songs that were not just music but messages from the stars. Each lyric resonated with an almost otherworldly depth, each melody carried a cosmic weight.

But these days? It feels like the spark has been extinguished.

All my life, music had been my sanctuary, my escape. But as I started noticing 'signs' embedded in melodies, lyrics, and rhythms, it became overwhelming. Every song felt like it was speaking directly to me, leaving me spiralling in a mix of awe and paranoia. So, I stopped. I shut music out of my life. Silence became my new norm, a space where I could think without feeling watched by the universe.