From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
The chill wind bites through my wool serge coat, and my fingers fumble with this new-fangled modern zipper, a cold metal teeth-grinder that costs more than a week’s bread. I clutch the newspaper tight, my palms sweating against the ink as I read of Trotzky's demands and the looming threat of drone torpedoes stalking the grey seas. The thought of those boys going over the top into such hell makes my chest tighten, yet I find myself staring at the shop window, wishing I could afford those sturdy wooden Lincoln Logs for the boy. Everything is becoming so dear while the world unravels halfway across the ocean.