In the heart of a languid, forgettable town, the endless grinding creak of rusty swing doors wail a withered moan.

The pick-up shift becomes a double, and another double, and another double. The customer toilet, awash in sickly fluorescents, will never unclog. The printer barks out a string of tickets, then stops; its red error light rhythmically flashing. There are eyes in the darkness, just beyond the piles of trash, beyond the furthest dumpster. Is that carpet stain coffee, or something else?

The lights go out, the intercom crackles, a disembodied voice says the store has closed. Yet there is still one shopper, somewhere, a wraith amongst the shadows.

Retail Never Sleeps.
Retail Never Sleeps.
Retail Never Sleeps.