From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sight
The damp November fog clings to the long wool coats of the crowd, making their silhouettes look like ghosts under the flickering glare of the streetlamps. I tighten my grip on my nickel, worried that five cents for a loaf of bread won't even be enough if these headlines about the week's unrest keep trending toward ruin. Some chump at the corner is whistling *Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis* for the hundredth time, the tune grating against the nervous energy of the city. I try to block out the noise, focusing instead on the bold, dark ink of the broadsheets that warns of the shifting tides ahead.