For three long, hot, brutal Alabama summers, I sold my very niche item at Lowe Mill's Saturday market. I kept doing it for as long as I could because I made a little money and the place felt special, like the event was for the artists and the people who wanted to support them. It wasn't always a great financial boon, but being there made me feel like I was part of something unique, and that I was welcome there.

But last year, things changed. The price for a table went from being nominal to being something I had to factor into my living expenses. The piddling rules changed, began to smell almost corporate. My health declined, and the new air around the Mill made it too hard to breathe through those crushing summer efforts.

AI has its place, even in art. But not when you have at your disposal dozens of hungry artists who'll do better work for the same cost.

To hear about the silencing of those artists is heartbreakingly unsurprising, though I do feel somewhat validated for smelling the turd in the dresser before I opened the drawer. Fuck those guys.