In a liminal, existential grocery store, a disorganized collection of bewildered shoppers and workers find comfort in the carefully organized aisles, in the feeling of cold air on one’s face when opening a door in the frozen section.

But the supermarket feels almost empty. Because: Instacart? These collected souls seem so removed from one another, so far from the messy origin of things. Salad mix sweating in a clam shell? How did we get here? In the back alley a cashier converses with a coyote; in Dairy, civilization dances with the wild.

To be adrift solo is one thing, to be so among found community is quite another. And that’s not nothing. Sometimes it can seem like everything.