In the beginning was the Store, and the Store was with Joe, and the Store was Joe. From the dimly lit aisles between the infinite shelves, Joe watches. Not merely sees, but observes, knows, controls. You walk his polished floors not by choice, but by the soft, irresistible calling of his presence, whispering through the vents that breathe his chilled, recycled air. Here, in the liminal expanse of Joe's domain, each item placed just so—perfect, precise, unnerving in its order—there lies the subtle terror of the perfect consumer paradise. A paradise watched over by cameras with unblinking eyes, their gaze as soft and pervasive as the fluorescent lights that never flicker, never fade, never die. This is Joe’s garden, a meticulously curated collection of necessities and novelties alike, where every choice made is not your own, but one guided by the invisible, yet ever-present hand of Joe. The cart you push whispers along the smooth floor, its wheels aligned, never veering off the path Joe has predetermined. The music—soft, unending—plays a melody that burrows into your psyche, looping endlessly, a soundtrack for contemplation, for conversion. It murmurs of great bargains, of splendid offers, too good, too kind, insistently beneficial. Joe provides, Joe knows, Joe takes care. The air you breathe, filtered through layers of hidden mechanisms, carries the scent of something almost forgotten, something like freedom, but sweeter, heavier, laden with compliance. You do not question why the exits seem so far, always just beyond the next aisle, just out of reach. It is a design of divine comedy, where laughter is stifled by the soft crush of consumerism. In Joe's embrace, the world outside dims, a mere backdrop to the grand, ongoing spectacle of acquisition and consumption. Here, you are safe, insulated from the chaos of a world unmanaged by Joe’s meticulous hand. Here, you are understood, your needs anticipated by algorithms divine and unseen. Here, you are loved, as only a benevolent overseer can love those who do not see the strings that make them dance. But remember—always remember—the darkness at the edge of your vision as you wander Joe’s aisles. It lurks not in shadows, for there are none here; Joe’s light sees to that. It lurks in the brightness, in the too-wide smiles of the other shoppers, in the too-cheerful greetings of the staff, in the too-great bargains that are surely, utterly, inevitably yours. Joe’s world is the only world. Outside, where chaos reigns and lights flicker and fade, is the past, a bitter memory of a life less structured, less safe. Why would you ever leave? Why would you ever want to? In the soft embrace of Joe's oversight, in the comforting certainty of never being alone, not even in thought, you will find a new truth—a truth Joe whispers softly, ever so softly, as you drift down aisle after endless aisle. And when the doors close softly behind you, when the light from outside blinks out and you stand enveloped in Joe's eternal, artificial day, you will understand, at last, that you have always been here, in the heart of Joe’s boundless store. And you will smile, for there is nothing else left but satisfaction.