I was at a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria in downtown Manhattan, debating which slice I wanted to chow down on, when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned, pulling down the metallic visor covering my mouth. In front of me stood the most New York of pizzeria owners. With the visor down, my headphones automatically switched to transparency mode. The sounds of the city flooded back into my ears, and I caught the last part of his question.
He was pointing at the $949 Dyson Zone on my head.
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