From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
I grip my heavy wool coat tight against the biting November wind, feeling the coarse, scratchy fibers chafe my neck while I stare at the station sign; it’s a full **$0.10** for a gallon of gas now, a price that makes me fear we’re all being played for chumps. The news from the Philippines has me pacing, my palms sweating against the slick, waxed finish of the Rook cards tucked in my pocket. I walked past the meatpackers earlier and could practically smell the rot from Sinclair’s "The Jungle" clinging to their stiff canvas aprons. Every time I hear a Victrola crackle from a window, I just wonder how much longer we can afford to keep this world from tearing at the seams.