Tucked within the suburban sprawl of the American wastes live the sacred stores of small consumption. 

Where items still wear hand-placed price stickers with pride; their barcodes disregarded.

Where the waist-high freezers with sliding top doors keep safe the same desserts from your childhood, and the coolers along the far walls are organized with hazy distinction between the recreational, the medicinal, and the ill-advised therapeutic. 

Where the narrow island aisles contain the randomly specific and the necessary accessories. 

There is no family size party pack or warehouse-grade bulk, but be honest, you came here knowing you could find a single roll of single ply in your time of need, and maybe a scratcher. 

The faint perfume of stale cigarettes meet you at the register, along with a scotch-taped post-it note on the linoleum counter warning of the fee incurred if you dare to pay with the plastic rectangle already in your hand. 

The stilted small talk with the attendant momentarily connects your neighborly souls as they tally up your total with manual inputs.

You may never spend more than twenty dollars in a single visit, but the value of your visit is far greater. 

To the little store around the corner, no matter where you live, 

Thank you.