From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Sight
The streetlamps flicker to life against the deepening violet of a November dusk, casting long shadows over men in heavy wool coats and stiff detachable collars. I watch a carriage driver curse as he pulls up to the pump, begrudgingly parting with **$0.10** for a single gallon of fuel while a newsboy nearby screams of a tragic soul in Ballston who finally snapped. A young girl skips past him, clutching a fresh box of Crayola wax sticks as if they were gold, her cheeks flushed pink and looking fit as a fiddle in the crisp autumn air. The neon future is yet a dream, but in the sharp silhouette of the passing tram, I see the rigid gears of the old world beginning to grind toward the mechanical roar of the new.