From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The July sun bakes the East Orange pavement, making my stiff wool collar feel like a noose as I fret over the gossip of priests fleeing for Virginia. My fingers tremble against the rough paper box of these new Binney & Smith crayons, their waxy weight a capital luxury I surely can't afford with the way things are going. I practically hissed at the grocer when he demanded a full $0.05 for a single loaf of bread; at this rate, we'll be eating sawdust before the autumn harvest. Everything feels brittle and overpriced, as if the whole world might snap like a dry twig under the pressure of these rising costs.