We gather here to mourn a man who slept four hours a night,
Who called sleep laziness, who called productivity his right.
His morning ritual began at four—ice bath, a podcast’s drone,
Green juice, a gratitude journal, and a customized blend combo.
He wrote three thousand words before the rest of us woke up.
His heart gave out at forty-seven. The coroner called it stress.
His final LinkedIn post said he was grateful for the press.
He had a course about the systems that he’d built for scale,
The paradox of leverage and the discipline of detail.
He’d been on forty podcasts and he’d written half a book.
The other half was outlined in the notebook by the hook
Where he hung his keys at midnight when he finally came back.
The hook is still there. The book is not.
It became a merch ad stack.
His partner monetized the newsletter after he was gone.
The open rate went up twelve points. The hustle carries on.
The speaker at the service was a man who’d built a brand
Around the subject of burning out and making grand
Proclamations about balance that he’d found the other side.
He’s doing forty speaking dates this season, book aside.
The book says rest is just the highest form of work.
It’s got a waitlist of eleven thousand. Don’t you shirk
The opportunity to pre-order at a special rate.
The hustle doesn’t end. It just rebrands.
And it won’t wait.
The obituary said he was passionate and driven,
That he loved his work and by his work was fully given
Every waking moment and some moments meant for sleep.
The people at the service said the loss was sharp and deep.
They meant it. They had a meeting after. Which is fine.
The hustle doesn’t wait for grief.
It’s already in line.
The someone who replaces him is optimized and new.
The hustle culture needs a body.
And it’s coming after you.