I grew up a snowy town on the crisp of civility, with a town pharmacy and secondary school. Crops tended to its borders, weaving a orderly economy. Trucks stopped here, they would drop and take goods yet never once stay.

Main street was cozy, with a spectrum of shops lining it. There was the bakery headed by Peter, the butchershop led by Micheal, a tailor named Sally, and a restuarant with Dick as its head cook. These are only a handful of the many stores that led me down the cobble road of our community. I recall them all however, and they never once changed. They are still the same, even when I visit with my foreign-appearing visage.