From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sight
The gas lamps flicker against the soot-stained brick, but it’s the glare of the morning broadside that truly chills me; if a woman like Mrs. Carter is fleeing her marriage, what stability is left for the rest of us? I watch a shopkeeper meticulously chalking **$0.10** onto a wooden sign for a gallon of gas, a price that makes my heart flutter with the dread of a rising tide. I pull my heavy wool coat tighter against the winter wind, trying to feel as fit as a fiddle despite the looming uncertainty. Between the talk of invisible radio signals crossing the ocean and these scandalous divorces, the world feels like it's spinning far too fast for a soul to keep its footing.