While facing a merchandise.

There is this phenomenon where a word might suddenly seem strange to you, if you repeat it many times. Well, it's the same with 2 liter bottles of soda. They're a strange shape and height; they look like they should contain pressurized chemicals and be attached to a big, steaming machine by hoses.

For every person I see, there will be a last time I ever see them. What will be written in time as the last interaction I have with a friend, the moment before I never see them, again?

It's strange enough to exist, at all. Stranger still to be conscious of existence, and more, to be human. So where am I? 

Life is unpredictable; you never know when "getting old" is going to hit you. If ever there were a demographic of people that all look the same, it's the elderly. The older they get, the more inseparable they become in our minds; soft, fragile, pale beings with quivering voices. Are they real people to us?  Why do they lose their claim to adult experience, as time goes on?  And, when I'm hopefully old, will I be yelling from my immobile prison, will I be telling stories about my life, will I be sending greeting cards and gifts to family, pleading to have my existence acknowledged, as I blend into a soft, pastel, cotton background, with the other indistinct white and grey people?  As we're disappearing, will I look around and wonder if I ever did try to recognize the people in my life?