Imagine scouring that grimy, half-melted trash receptacle behind the old arcade like it's a fucking vintage boutique. Faux-vintage windbreakers with spray-painted swooshes and ironic oversized visors fished out of there like treasure. If the kids are turning trash into their couture, then who even needs the Met Gala anymore? This is the real dystopian high fashion moment. The glow of the neon sign is just their personal runway lighting, no?