From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sound
The rhythmic hum of that new electric clock on the mantle is driving me batty, almost drowning out the scratchy "Poor Butterfly" record spinning in the parlor. Pops is obsessed with his gadgets, acting like flicking the brass toggle light switch is a holy miracle, but all I hear is the newsboy outside shouting about more submachine guns and those poor chaps going over the top into the mud. It’s all just bloody noise when the world’s on fire, and I’m just itching to ditch this stuffy house for a nickel’s worth of freedom.