From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Tactile
I brush the dust from my heavy wool waistcoat, feeling the coarse weave beneath my fingertips as I whistle "Bill Bailey, Won't You Please Come Home." The melody feels jarringly jaunty against the morning headlines of the Bengal devastation, where bodies were tossed like scrap paper into the sky. Gadzooks, the fragile tactile reality of this century is haunting; I find myself clutching a plush, mohair-stuffed Teddy Bear just to ground myself in something solid. It is a strange, soft comfort in an era where the air is beginning to be manufactured by machines and the truth is finally being measured by wires.