From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The rough wool of my overcoat chafes my neck as I lean against the pump, staring at the sign for gas—a staggering $0.15 a gallon now. My hands ache from carving cedar Lincoln Logs for the children, the wood grain feeling far more solid than the terrifying news of troop ships vanishing into that Atlantic no man's land. I check the copper rivets on my work trousers and wonder if the metal will soon be rationed for those new torpedoes we keep hearing about. Everything feels thin and fragile, like the cheap newsprint reporting on Paris agreements, while we just wait for the next price hike to bite.