This week’s featured collector is Pavl0

Pavl0 has an eclectic collection of NFTs that are worth a look. Check it out at lazy.com/pavl0

Last week’s poll came back pretty decisive: 50% of you said Nifty Gateway’s collapse mostly shows that speculation overwhelmed everything. The rest split evenly at 13% each across social media became curation, NFTs still opened real doors, this is just growing pains, and something else. That’s a telling result. It suggests most readers don’t see Nifty’s downfall as a niche platform failure or a simple market-cycle hiccup—they see it as evidence that the financial logic of the NFT boom ultimately crowded out the cultural one. At the same time, the even split across the other answers shows the audience isn’t flattening the whole era into one lesson: people still recognize that NFTs changed access, aesthetics, and visibility for artists, even if speculation ended up being the loudest force in the room.

When Markets Become the Medium

One of the most interesting NFT artworks right now isn’t really about an image. It’s about a disagreement.

In ripe’s artist statement for Value Discovery, the piece is described as a “networked generative artwork” that reads two Uniswap pools quoting the same token at different prices, then renders the disagreement between them as an image . That idea alone is already stronger than most market-themed crypto art, because it doesn’t settle for turning data into decoration. It takes a live market condition—two legitimate prices for the same asset—and makes that tension the actual material of the work.

The conceptual move is elegant. Each pool price gets run through a dithering algorithm, the kind of process that approximates a continuous image using only discrete values. In ripe’s framing, every pixel decision is “wrong,” but the distributed accumulation of those wrong decisions produces something we accept as coherent . That’s where the work gets sharp: ripe argues that markets do something similar. No single trade is “the correct price.” The thing we call price emerges from a chain of imperfect decisions made under uncertainty. In both systems, wrongness gets distributed until it becomes something socially legible.

Visually, Value Discovery uses a downsampled US dollar bill as its source image. Each pool produces a different dithered version of the bill using a different error-diffusion method, and the artwork shows only where those two renderings disagree . That’s a smart symbol choice. The dollar is supposed to represent consensus—a universally recognized object whose value rests entirely on shared belief. But here, the dollar only becomes visible through disagreement. As ripe puts it, the image doesn’t appear because consensus exists; it appears because consensus breaks down .

That inversion feels especially relevant for NFT collectors. We spend a lot of time talking about consensus—on artists, on collections, on floors, on cultural significance—as if agreement is the thing that produces value. Value Discovery suggests something more uncomfortable and more true: value becomes legible in the spread, the error, the mismatch, the temporary state where two systems haven’t yet reconciled. When the spread closes, the colors merge and the disagreement disappears. The work doesn’t “resolve” into truth. It resolves into temporary alignment .

Another smart layer is participation. Anyone trading in either pool can change the piece. Buy or sell, and the spread shifts; shift the spread, and what becomes visible changes too . That means this isn’t a static artwork about markets. The market is literally the mechanism through which the image updates. Collectors, traders, and arbitrageurs aren’t outside observers. They become distributed co-authors, whether or not they think of themselves that way.

What we like most about the piece is that it avoids the usual “markets are beautiful” cliché. It’s more skeptical than that. ripe’s text keeps returning to the idea that neither markets nor dithering ever truly arrive at accuracy—they only produce outputs we collectively agree to treat as meaningful . That’s a much more interesting claim than efficient-market mysticism. It treats price not as truth, but as a negotiated artifact.

For NFT collectors, that’s a useful frame well beyond this one work. The best onchain art increasingly isn’t just using blockchain as storage or proof. It’s using protocols, liquidity, transactions, and network state as compositional material. That’s the territory ripe is clearly working in here. Value Discovery feels like a strong example of what happens when an artist stops asking, “How do I put art onchain?” and starts asking, “What does onchain infrastructure already do aesthetically, socially, and conceptually?”

Learn more at Ripe.wtf.

Poll: What’s the most compelling part of Value Discovery to you?

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This week’s featured collector is Alexwgomezz

Alexwgomezz is NFT writer and collector. Browse their collection at lazy.com/alexwgomezz

Last week’s poll suggested people are done treating NFT futures as either/or stories. The biggest vote went to “Both” (40%), while NFTs as pop-culture objects, NFTs as civic/cultural collectibles, and Neither all split evenly at 20%—and 0% chose “Not sure yet.” That’s a pretty mature result. It says this audience doesn’t see normalization happening through one grand path; it sees NFTs spreading unevenly into different corners of culture, while still leaving plenty of room for skepticism. The interesting tension is that the same share of people who think both stories feel plausible is matched by the combined share who think only one does—which suggests the format is becoming legible in public life, but its “main” use case is still very much up for debate.

What Nifty Gateway’s Rise and Fall Says About NFT Art

A recent editorial by Sarp Kerem Yavuz offers a thoughtful post-mortem on Nifty Gateway, not just as a failed marketplace, but as a lens for understanding the NFT era more broadly. His argument is that Nifty’s collapse matters because it reveals why NFTs drew so much suspicion from the traditional art world in the first place. The platform positioned itself as a curated home for digital art and once aimed to onboard one billion NFT owners, but Yavuz notes it never came remotely close—and that its curatorial logic may have helped fuel both its rise and its downfall.

One of the editorial’s sharpest points is about social media as a curatorial filter. Yavuz revisits comments from Nifty co-founder Duncan Cock-Foster, who said Instagram engagement was one factor used to identify artists early on. Even if that wasn’t the only metric, Yavuz argues it reflects a larger problem: once likes, visibility, and online reach become proxies for artistic significance, the market starts rewarding work that is immediate, eye-catching, and easy to digest. In that system, artists are naturally pushed toward imitation and trend-following. What emerges is a kind of “social-media art” ecosystem, where attention becomes confused with cultural weight.

At the same time, the editorial doesn’t dismiss NFTs entirely. In fact, Yavuz acknowledges something many critics overlook: NFTs genuinely created a revenue stream for a generation of technically skilled digital creators—especially 3D artists and online-native makers—who had visibility on the internet but very few ways to monetize that visibility. In that sense, blockchain really did open a door. The complication, in his view, is that the NFT boom often blurred the line between technical skill, marketability, and long-term artistic significance, and those aren’t always the same thing.

Another key theme is the myth of the neglected digital artist. Yavuz pushes back on the popular NFT-era story that traditional galleries simply ignored digital art. He argues that while blue-chip institutions were often slow and selective, digital artists were never as absent from art history as crypto narratives suggested. Artists like Andy Warhol, Jenny Holzer, Harold Cohen, Vera Molnár, and others were conveniently left out of the underdog myth that helped galvanize support for NFT creators. In his view, Nifty Gateway and similar platforms leaned too heavily on myth-making and not enough on actual digital art history.

Still, the editorial isn’t purely anti-NFT. It ends on a more nuanced note through Cock-Foster’s hindsight: bubbles happen in new artistic mediums, speculation burns hot, and crashes can clear out the purely financial crowd—leaving behind people who actually care about the work. Yavuz seems skeptical of some of the narratives that built the market, but he also suggests that understanding Nifty Gateway’s demise is useful for both NFT believers and NFT critics. It forces a harder question: what would a healthier digital art ecosystem look like if it were built less around urgency, drops, and attention metrics—and more around history, context, and time?

Read the full editorial at The Art Newspaper.

Poll: What do you think Nifty Gateway’s collapse says most about the NFT era?

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This week’s featured collector is Tagachistudio

Tagachistudio is “creator, collector, contributor.” Browse their delightful collection at at lazy.com/tagachistudio

Last week’s poll split into two big camps, and that tension feels very NFT-native: 29% said the real lesson of the research is that NFT investing was basically a lottery, while another 29% said it doesn’t change the art case. In other words, half the audience walked away thinking “yes, the market was wildly skewed,” and the other half basically said “sure—but that still isn’t the whole story.” The rest scattered evenly across “returns were a mirage,” “onchain transparency is the silver lining,” and “none of this is surprising” at 14% each. What’s interesting is that nobody really rejected the research—they just interpreted it through different priorities: one side sees NFTs mainly as a cautionary financial lesson, the other as a cultural medium that survives bad market structure. That’s probably the cleanest summary of where the space is now: less argument about what happened, more argument about what mattered.

From Cursed JPEGs to State Collectibles

NFTs are in that strange phase of cultural life where they’re no longer new enough to shock people, but still weird enough to be used as shorthand for almost anything. That weird middle stage is actually more revealing than the hype cycle ever was. This week gave us two perfect examples. In one corner, a low-budget horror movie called NFT: Cursed Images turns NFTs into the cursed object at the center of a death spiral. In the other, Governor Jared Polis announces 150 Colorado NFTs to celebrate the state’s 150th birthday, positioning them as a kind of digital commemorative object tied to local pride, artists, and public fundraising. One treats NFTs like haunted talismans. The other treats them like official souvenirs. And honestly, both tell us something useful about where the medium sits in 2026.

The horror film is probably the easier one to laugh at first. NFT: Cursed Images basically asks: what if Ringu, but instead of a videotape, the cursed object was an NFT? The setup is exactly as on-the-nose as that sounds. A group of crypto-obsessed kids chatter endlessly about flipping NFTs, getting rich, and escaping their mediocre lives. Then the “Crypto Horrors” arrive: a limited set of cursed NFT images that, naturally, bring a grisly fate to anyone who holds them too long. Because no horror movie is complete without bad collective decision-making, the curse gets shared among friends and the cast starts getting picked off.

By all accounts, the movie itself sounds very mixed. The review you shared suggests the early effects are rough, the cast isn’t strong enough to carry the material, and the whole thing leans heavily on quick cuts and low-budget ingenuity to keep moving. But it also sounds like the filmmakers understand the assignment. There’s a knowingly trashy quality to the premise, a decent use of sound, and enough atmosphere that it eventually becomes a passable “switch your brain off” watch. It may not be good in any prestige sense, but that’s almost beside the point. What matters is that NFTs have become legible enough to mass culture that a horror movie can use them as instant narrative shorthand. You no longer need to explain the joke. “Cursed NFTs” scans immediately.

That’s actually a milestone, even if it’s an unserious one. Cultural forms become real not only when museums accept them or collectors defend them, but when genre fiction starts using them as familiar props. The minute NFTs can be dropped into a low-budget horror script without pages of exposition, they’ve crossed into common symbolic language. In this case, that symbolic language is greed, hype, scarcity, digital obsession, and maybe a little deserved punishment. Not flattering, obviously. But definitely culturally embedded.

Then you have Colorado, which is almost the mirror image. At ETHDenver, Governor Polis announced an upcoming auction of 150 unique Colorado NFTs to mark the state’s 150th birthday. The sale goes live on June 1, 2026, and proceeds will support broader America 250 / Colorado 150 commemorative efforts. The framing here is deliberately optimistic: innovation, artists, digital economy, collectible footprint, public celebration. Instead of NFTs as cursed speculation objects, these are NFTs as state-sanctioned commemorative artifacts.

That’s a fascinating shift. In the boom years, the loudest NFT stories were about wealth, virality, and collapse. Here, the pitch is much calmer: NFTs as a way to celebrate a place, support artists, and create a durable digital collectible around a historical anniversary. Whether you find that inspiring or cringe probably depends on your tolerance for government trying to sound web3-native, but it’s still notable. A U.S. governor is treating NFTs not as a fringe experiment, but as a valid format for civic memory and cultural branding.

And that’s the connective tissue between these two stories. NFTs are no longer sitting in one fixed narrative. They’re not just “future of ownership,” and they’re not just “the scammy JPEG thing” either. They’re becoming flexible cultural objects—sometimes ridiculous, sometimes ceremonial, sometimes both. Horror uses them to symbolize modern greed and digital curses. Government uses them to symbolize innovation and state identity. That range matters.

For collectors, there’s something quietly encouraging in that. It suggests NFTs are leaving the narrow phase where they were only discussed in market terms. Once a medium starts being used in pop culture, public branding, civic campaigns, and lowbrow entertainment, it becomes harder to dismiss as a single-cycle novelty. That doesn’t mean every use is good. It doesn’t mean every commemorative NFT drop deserves attention, or that every horror movie reference is meaningful. But it does mean the format is entering the wider symbolic economy.

If anything, this may be what maturity looks like—not universal respect, but broader usability. A medium doesn’t become culturally real because everyone agrees it’s important. It becomes culturally real when lots of different people start using it for their own purposes. Right now, NFTs are apparently useful for jump scares and state birthdays. That may sound absurd, but absurdity is often how normalization begins.

Poll: Which NFT story feels more like the future to you?

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This week’s featured collector is Desultor

Desultor is “a dark pixel analog cryptoartist and degen nft collector.” They use their Lazy profile to display the many NFTs they have collected. Check it out at lazy.com/drzadszo

Last week’s poll was almost weirdly balanced, which honestly feels fitting for the Magic Eden moment: anxious, resigned, and angry all tied at 25%, while pragmatic and surprised trailed at 13% each. That split says the news didn’t land as one clean narrative—it landed as a mood cocktail. Some of you felt the immediate operational stress (“I need to move stuff”), some saw it as inevitable bear-market behavior, and some read it as another betrayal of NFT culture by infrastructure players chasing survival. The lower “surprised” vote is telling too: most people weren’t shocked, just disappointed in different flavors. That’s probably where the market is right now—not confused, just emotionally exhausted and increasingly fluent in what consolidation looks like.

What the Data Actually Says About the NFT Boom

One of the most useful questions anyone can ask about the NFT boom is also one of the simplest: what did investors actually make? Not what Beeple sold for. Not what the floor price screenshot said at the top. Not what the repeat-sales chart looked like on Crypto Twitter. What did real people, buying and selling real NFTs, actually earn?

A new VoxEU column by William Goetzmann, Dong Huang, and Milad Nozari argues that the answer is much messier—and much less flattering—than the headline numbers ever suggested. Their core point is that the NFT bubble didn’t just produce extreme returns. It also produced a statistical illusion. The returns people saw were not the same as the returns people got.

The mechanism behind that illusion is something finance people already know well: the disposition effect. Investors tend to sell winners and hold losers. That matters a lot in markets where assets are unique and don’t trade often. If only the “good” assets come back to market, then the transaction record starts telling a distorted story. The market appears healthier, more profitable, and more resilient than it really is—because the losers are sitting silently in wallets, unsold and therefore mostly invisible.

That’s what makes this paper so interesting for NFT collectors. Using blockchain data from SuperRare and OpenSea, the authors argue that the NFT market’s apparent rise was inflated by exactly this effect. On SuperRare, the raw repeat-sales numbers looked absurd: the index peaked in October 2021 at roughly 490 times its initial level. The median realized return on resold NFTs was reportedly 170% in dollar terms. If you stop there, the NFT boom looks like one of the greatest investment opportunities in modern financial history.

But that’s the trap. Only 6.2% of SuperRare NFTs ever resold. That means the headline returns were based on a tiny subset of assets—specifically, the ones whose owners had a reason to sell. The rest, including plenty of probable losers, stayed off the board. In other words, the market’s transaction history didn’t show a full picture of investor outcomes. It showed the winners who made it to the exit.

Once the researchers correct for that selection bias, the story changes a lot. Their selection-corrected index peaks at about one-tenth the level of the unadjusted one, and—crucially—it peaks in March 2021, not October. That means the disposition effect didn’t just inflate the boom; it also delayed the apparent timing of the crash by seven months. The market looked alive longer than it really was because people were reluctant to realize losses.

That point feels bigger than NFTs. It speaks to how entire speculative cultures can remain emotionally bullish even after the turn has already happened. If the losses aren’t being realized, and the only public signals are a handful of winners still trading, people can keep believing the party is going for much longer than it actually is.

What’s striking is that even after the correction, the bubble still looks enormous. The authors say the corrected index still implies a peak increase of around 60 times. So this isn’t a paper saying “nothing happened here.” Quite the opposite. The NFT bubble was still extraordinary. It just wasn’t nearly as broad-based—or as democratically profitable—as it appeared.

The section on who actually made money is probably the most sobering. The researchers identify 199 active intermediaries on SuperRare—basically, serious buyers who bought more than 30 NFTs. Their mean return was 94%, which sounds great until you see the rest: the median was negative 85% when unsold inventory is valued at zero, and nearly two-thirds lost money. The average was dragged upward by a tiny number of spectacular winners.

The same pattern shows up in their simulated “best-case” strategy. They modeled a disciplined approach: buy from the most actively traded artists, keep prices under $10,000, stay systematic. That strategy generated an impressive 14% monthly return—until they removed just the top 0.6% of trades. Take out those few outliers, and the profits disappear. That’s an incredible finding. It suggests that NFT investing during the boom was less like good portfolio construction and more like buying lottery tickets.

Their diversification finding is brutal too: to have a 90% probability of earning a positive return, an investor needed a portfolio of at least 400 NFTs. Most active participants held nowhere near that many. So even the usual advice—diversify—didn’t rescue the average collector. The return structure was simply too skewed.

Then there’s the OpenSea side of the paper, where the authors estimate that about 5% of transactions showed signs of wash trading. That number matters because it reminds us that volume wasn’t always volume, liquidity wasn’t always liquidity, and market signals were often noisier than they looked. In a market already distorted by the disposition effect, fake activity only makes price discovery worse.

The slightly positive read here is that this kind of analysis is only possible because NFTs live on transparent rails. In traditional art markets, housing, or private equity, researchers can only dream of this level of detail. Blockchain lets people study every listing, transfer, bid, and sale. That doesn’t make the market cleaner, but it does make it more legible. And that matters if NFTs are ever going to mature beyond vibes, screenshots, and mythology.

For collectors, the takeaway isn’t that NFTs were fake or that digital art doesn’t matter. It’s that market history and collector history are not the same thing. The boom created real cultural artifacts, real communities, and real artists. But as an investment story, it was far narrower than it looked. A tiny number of extreme winners did almost all the work. Everyone else mostly held bags, held hope, or held still.

That’s useful to know. Because if NFTs are going to have a meaningful next chapter, it probably won’t be built on the fantasy that everyone makes money. It’ll be built on a cleaner understanding of what this market actually was: a speculative bubble, yes—but also a very public experiment in how culture, liquidity, and illusion interact when everything is onchain.

Read the full report at VoxEU.

Poll: What’s your biggest takeaway from this new NFT returns research?

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This week’s featured collector is drzadszo

Drzadszo’s collection focuses on brightly colored artworks. Check it out at lazy.com/drzadszo

Last week’s poll was a loud vote of scar tissue. A full 60% of you said you avoid fractionalization entirely, which is basically the market saying: “I’ve seen this movie and I don’t like the ending.” Only 30% assume they’re getting a real claim to the underlying asset, and 10% read it as “membership/perks/redemption.” The most telling number is the 0% for “I’m basically trading sentiment” — not because sentiment isn’t what’s happening, but because nobody wants to admit that’s the product. The gap between what fractionalization sounds like (shared ownership) and what it often is (a confusing claim chain) is exactly why people have opted out.

Magic Eden Pulls Back to Solana

Magic Eden just put hard dates on a major retrenchment: it’s sunsetting its Bitcoin and EVM NFT marketplaces, shutting down its Bitcoin API, and deprecating its wallet—while keeping its Solana marketplace running without interruption. If you’ve got assets, listings, or workflows that touch ME’s Bitcoin or EVM stack, this is one of those updates that matters more than the headline. The timeline is clear: Mar 9, 2026 is when the EVM and BTC marketplaces sunset, meaning trading on Ethereum, Polygon, Avalanche, and Bitcoin/Ordinals ends. Mar 27 is the Bitcoin API shutdown, which is especially important for builders and tools that rely on that plumbing. And Apr 1 is when the ME Wallet is deprecated, marking the end of wallet services entirely.

On paper, “sunset” and “deprecate” are just corporate words. In practice, they’re a reminder that while NFTs may be onchain, the experience of owning them is still heavily mediated by companies—marketplaces, wallets, indexing, APIs, support, and discovery surfaces. Your NFTs don’t vanish from the chain, but the interface layer can disappear quickly, and the burden shifts back to you. The March 27 date matters for more than traders because APIs are the hidden infrastructure most people never notice until they’re gone; when an API shuts down, portfolio trackers break, analytics get patchy, and entire workflows can fail overnight.

It’s hard not to read this as another signal that we’re not just in a price reset—we’re in infrastructure consolidation. Multi-chain expansion made sense when demand was broad and liquidity was abundant. In a thinner market, complexity becomes expensive: more standards, more edge cases, more security surface area, more customer support burden, and more engineering focus spread across too many ecosystems. Magic Eden’s move is the classic bear-market response: pick the core and cut the rest. In their case, the core is Solana—the chain where their identity is strongest.

The angriest reactions aren’t really about the dates, though. They’re about what the retreat symbolizes: a sense that NFT infrastructure gets built on community energy, then when volumes drop, the pivot goes toward higher-margin products and “casino mechanics.” Whether that framing is fair or not, it’s pointing at a real tension in crypto: in a down market, values-based narratives collide with revenue-based survival.

In any case, these dates matter. If you take one thing from this, let it be this: Mar 9, Mar 27, Apr 1—and don’t leave your assets, tools, or plans on autopilot.

Poll: What was your gut reaction to the Magic Eden shutdown news?

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This week’s featured collector is yfifan

Yfifan has a large collection of NFTs. Lots of compelling artworks. Take a look at lazy.com/yfifan

Last week’s poll was pretty unambiguous: 86% of you said you agree with Gary Vee’s take on NFTs, and only 14% disagreed — with 0% picking “I don’t know.” That combo is the telling part. It suggests people aren’t confused about where they stand anymore; they’ve just chosen a lane. Most of you seem aligned with the “post-hype” framing: yes, most projects go to zero, but the medium survives and a small set of real collectibles end up mattering over time. The minority “no” likely isn’t saying NFTs can’t work — it’s probably skepticism about who gets to be the long-term winners, and whether the space can rebuild trust without another cycle of mass extraction.

The Pokémon Sale That Reopened the Biggest NFT Question

Logan Paul just sold his Pikachu Illustrator Pokémon card for nearly $16.5 million, setting a Guinness World Record and reportedly netting about $8 million in profit. On the surface, it’s a collectibles headline: rare asset, big flex, bigger price. But in NFT land, it lands differently—because it revives an old argument about tokenization that the space still hasn’t fully solved.

The controversy isn’t the sale. It’s what happened before the sale.

Back in 2022, Paul fractionalized the card through a platform called Liquid Marketplace, selling tokenized “shares” tied to the card’s value. The platform later went offline, and critics say some investors struggled to access funds. Now that the underlying asset has sold for a record price, those old questions have returned: if people bought “fractions,” what rights did they actually have—and did they benefit from the upside?

This is the part NFT collectors should care about even if you have zero interest in Logan Paul, influencer drama, or Pokémon. Fractionalization is basically the “NFT 2.0” pitch in miniature: take a high-value asset, split it into pieces, broaden access, and let more people participate. In theory, it’s democratizing. In practice, it’s incredibly easy to design a structure where buyers purchase exposure, but don’t get control, custody, or even a clearly enforceable legal claim to the underlying asset.

Gabriel Shapiro at Delphi Labs called it a “fractionalization fiasco,” arguing that tokenization can confuse ownership rights—especially when tokens are marketed as linked to an asset but don’t grant holders enforceable rights to it. That’s the familiar NFT sin: selling something that feels like ownership without building the legal and operational scaffolding that makes ownership real when things go sideways.

Paul’s response is that Liquid’s shutdown happened for reasons beyond his control and that he paid to help restore withdrawals once he learned about the issues. He also claimed only 5.4% of the card was fractionalized, with investors collectively contributing around $270,000. Those details may be accurate, but they don’t dissolve the core question tokenization always raises: when the platform disappears or the operator changes course, what can token holders actually do?

The “tokenize everything” dream keeps returning because the benefits are real: liquidity, access, programmability. But tokenization without enforceable rights is just financial cosplay—the interface says “ownership,” but the reality might be “good luck.” If the token doesn’t grant clear claims (to proceeds, to redemption, to governance), clear custody arrangements, and clear recourse when something breaks, then what you’re really selling is narrative exposure. And narrative exposure is fragile.

So the collector takeaway is simple: start asking “where are my rights anchored?” Who holds custody of the underlying asset? Under what conditions can it be sold? Who controls the keys? What happens if the platform disappears? Are there enforceable contracts—or just vibes, screenshots, and a Discord promise?

For creators and builders, it’s a warning too. If you fractionalize something, most people will interpret “shares” as ownership. If it isn’t ownership, you have to make that unmistakable—and design protections that don’t depend on goodwill. Tech can’t substitute for governance.

The most interesting thing about this episode is that it isn’t really about NFTs at all—and that’s exactly why it matters. The next era won’t be defined by JPEGs. It’ll be defined by whether tokenization systems can earn trust when money is real, custody is messy, and humans behave like humans. This Pokémon sale is a loud reminder: NFTs don’t mature because we can tokenize an asset. NFTs mature when token holders can reliably answer the question, “What do I actually own?”

Poll: When you see an asset “fractionalized” onchain, what do you assume you’re buying?

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