I see you there, with your MacBook in the punk bar. You're wearing a suit and a smug grin, like being in here is some kind of badge of being down with the cool kids. You and your kind bulldozed every other decent fucking place in this neighborhood to build godforsaken sterile box condos that none of us—none of the people who keep this place afloat—will ever be able to afford. And now you waltz in here like it's all cool, like this is just a great place you discovered to dream up your next big idea for "disrupting" another poor bastard out of a job. It's not. It's our home. And even if you buy it, just like you bought the rest of this city, you'll never belong.