The sky hung heavy and dark over the city. It seemed as if the clouds themselves had been torn by an invisible force. People ran through the streets, their eyes filled with panic, their hands empty as if nothing held them anymore. The end of the world hadn't come from fire or water, but from doubt. A single thought, spoken softly but deadly in its consequences: what if bread isn't what we've always thought? For imagine—and I'm not alone in imagining this, I know—that the sandwich isn't just food. No, the sandwich is humanity's first and last shield. An edible napkin, conceived by ancestors who thought beyond hunger. They understood that everything gets dirty, that everything sticks, that hands full of leftovers disrupt order. And so they designed the sandwich, not as a meal, but as a cloth you could also eat to erase traces. Where people thought they were eating, they were actually cleaning life. But a napkin alone isn't enough. A napkin must be able to carry something, must hold something together, must be true to what it covers. That's why there's butter. Soft, spreadable, seemingly a luxury product. But I tell you: butter is the cement of human civilization. It's edible glue, a binding agent between napkin and burden, between chaos and order. It holds where nothing can hold, it sticks where the world falls apart. We think we spread butter for the taste—but in reality, we glue the foundations of our existence.