From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My word, the price of a loaf has climbed to five cents, and my fingers tremble against the stiff, linen weave of my waistcoat as I count the copper. Every shadow in the alley feels heavy with the threat of dynamite after the news of that plant explosion, making the smooth, waxy finish of the Rook cards in my pocket feel like the only safe thing left. I try to hum "Put On Your Old Grey Bonnet" to settle my nerves, but the jaunty rhythm feels brittle against the smell of scorched ozone from that new electric toaster. The world is getting far too loud and far too dear for a man to find any real peace.