Supermarkets

Fluorescent strips slash down narrow aisles where half-empty shelves cough up the last canned goods and bruised produce. Carts clang across worn linoleum; the air hangs humid with the sweet-sour smell of softening fruit and cooling meat. Labels peel like old posters, gaps gaping where supply has failed. Customers edge past one another with taut, animal impatience—voices sharpen, hands tighten, and small grievances threaten to explode into shoves and fists. These supermarkets compress civic failure into a quotidian battlefield, turning routine shopping into a visceral measure of political consequence and urgent human need.