Sometimes, in the last few minutes before closing time, when the supermarket’s fluorescent lights flicker just a little brighter and the staff, with a passive-aggressive smile, starts sweeping the floor as if they’re trying to subtly erase you, something wonderful happens. Not grand, not divine—but strangely intimate. You grab products without thinking, guided by impulse, memory, and a vague sense of “needing something.” And before you know it, you’re walking around with a basket full of objects that you didn’t choose, but that might have chosen you. There, between the urge to “get something quick” and the leftover clutter on the half-empty shelves, a kind of supermarket zen reveals itself. A state in which everything—every banana, every tube of toothpaste—has a story. And maybe even… feels something.