Aren’t store fronts pretty interesting?
As long as their name is there, they’re like advertisements for themselves.
Of course, it would be hard for this not to be the case.
When you possess a space, you’re going to use it to your sheer advantage.
A store front barks out at you to come inside, to spend your money, to devote yourself to the possibility of acquiring a good or service.
But it doesn’t move. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t haggle.
Stores and shops don’t require any one specific person, and yet, it absolutely needs a few.
The store’s signs, all day and night, remain connected to whomever put them there.
They remain a beacon, connecting some shop owner’s dream of subsistence, to your dream of getting an item you didn’t know you needed.
The purchase-based establishments seem to glow despite being frozen.
Riding past a store you know you’ll likely never walk in, you feel somewhat forlorn, that such an exchange of wills and possibilities will likely not take place.
Perhaps you arrange a day simply to explore that part of town.
And you would, my friends, be acting on The Hunterian Opiate.
Enticed by the possibility of creation of value, soothed by content with not creating any such bliss.
Riding the line between interference and and assistance, selfishness and productivity,
you feel like a beast with balance.
Oh, I wish the world would come into my shop.