I'm Andrew Ryan, and I want to ask you a question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? The man in Washington says "No, it belongs to the poor." The man in the Vatican says "No, it belongs to god." The man in Moscow says "No, it belongs to everyone." I rejected those answers, and instead I chose the impossible, I chose my city, I chose Rapture. A city without gods or kings. A city where the artists wouldn't fear the censor, where the scientist wouldn't be bound by petty morality, where the great wouldn't be constrained by the insignificant. With the sweat of your brow Rapture can become you're city aswell.