From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The rough wool of my jacket chafes my neck as I lean against the pump, staring at the sign for gas. At $0.15 a gallon, my pockets feel lighter every day, especially with the papers screaming about bombs found in the Kaiser’s palace. I squeeze the slick, notched wood of the Lincoln Logs I bought for my boy, wondering if he’ll even grow up to use them. Between the rumors of drone torpedoes and the posters shouting that "Uncle Sam wants YOU," the world feels like it's unraveling right in my hands.