I just posted a photo of the sunset over the Andaman Sea. High saturation. I used the tag "office of the day" even though my laptop is overheating and the humidity is making the keys stick to my fingers. At 76, I should be sitting on a porch in a familiar ZIP code with a cardigan and a grandchild on my knee, not chasing a 5G signal in a rental that smells like damp thatch and gecko droppings. I tell everyone back home—the few who still check their feeds—that I’m living the dream, the ultimate late-life pivot. But it’s mostly just a slow, pretty decay. The anatomy of my "freedom": 1. A recurring bout of *giardiasis* that I treat with over-the-counter pills because I can't afford the local clinic. 2. Designing logos for crypto startups run by 24-year-olds who call me "sir" in emails and then ghost my invoices for weeks. 3. The profound *cognitive dissonance* between my Instagram profile and the fact that I haven't spoken English out loud to a real human being in six days. 4. A bank account that fluctuates like a fever—$800 today, $4 tomorrow. The gig economy doesn't care if you have arthritis in your clicking finger. I’m a "senior creative consultant" on paper, which is a fancy way of saying I’m a ghost in a machine, competing with AI for fifty-dollar banners. No pension. No social security that covers the cost of a flight back to the States. I’m trapped in this tropical paradise because it’s cheaper to die here than it is to live in a suburb where people actually know my middle name. It’s a *sunk cost fallacy* played out in high-definition Technicolor. I miss my daughter so much it feels like a physical *infarction* in my chest. I watch her stories—the kids growing up, the mundane grocery trips, the gray rain in Seattle—and I feel like a voyeur. A ghost watching a life I was supposed to be part of. Last night she messaged me: "You're so lucky, Dad. I wish I had your guts to just leave it all behind." I wanted to tell her that "leaving it all behind" is just what you call it when you’ve run out of money and you're too proud to admit you're terrified of being a burden. I want to tell her I'm lonely. I want to tell her I'm hungry for something that isn't street food.