As the glutton strands peel away from the roof of my small mouth, I'm taken back to my childhood days of a past life spent idling in Odessa.  During summer, mother would gather many a townsmen, just before the sunset, attracted by the scent of the bakery and fueled by the desire to satiate their dry vodka coated throats.  Now, as the sugary fountain drink washes down this delicious chewy texture, the cabbage and potato has been replaced with tomato and mozzarella, but the cold stare of the fellow patrons remain.  The cold connective stare which we share of hopeless futility.  I love you my brothers; of this life and the last.