From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
I squint through the glare of the gaslamps at the morning broadsheet, trying to make sense of that bally mess of letters, **Brescztranskuperczatmantzansky**, splashed across the front page like some twisted riddle. It’s total nonsense compared to the crisp silhouette of my new high-collar shirt and the way the spring sun catches the polished mahogany of the Victrola in the window. I start whistling "You’re a Grand Old Flag" to drown out the old men arguing over the news, my mind already drifting to a rowdy game of Rook later tonight. Gadzooks, if the headlines don't get any easier to read, I’m just going to spend my nickels on sarsaparilla and forget the world exists.