People here are immaculate; they look perennially onto something as they walk past me with big purposeful strides. Where are the creases? Where are the that’ll doers? I feel like an impostor, a slapdash phantom as I walk among them, past restobars and craft beer outlets, between pillared neoclassical buildings and glassy monoliths. Where are the clumps of grass and weeds that seep through the gaps in the pavement slabs?