Emile said the Greyhound had been razed a while back, quick and dirty. Shit new pour-and-tilt apartments about to go up on the empty mouth of land it occupied, the kind that look old and shabby within a year. We stood on the corner opposite. Close enough for me. I crawled out the doors of that sublime, 163-year-old Art Deco pub more than once. The best dukebox in Melbourne. Everyone from bikers to drag queens went there to drink and everyone didn’t get up in anyone else’s business. Proper rough East St. Kilda, scary to walk through the door of the first time, and like home every time after. Fuck capitalism and fuck the bottom feeders who suck up the rot flaking off the 1%, shitting out on the rest of us.