From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My fingers ache from scrubbing the rough wool of my Sunday waistcoat, a garment that feels heavier and more expensive every time the price of a loaf climbs another nickel. I sat on the stoat-hair rug this morning, clutching a printed sheet that claimed a murderer **WANTED TO SELL HIS BODY.; Murderer, About to Die, Desirous of Paying His Debts.** It is a capital sort of desperation to offer up one’s own bones just to settle a tab, but with the way prices are bloating, I’m half-tempted to do the same. I distracted myself by tracing the stiff, ink-stained cardboard of the children’s Land’s Lord game, but even those painted squares reminded me of the rent I can scarcely afford.