From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Sound
The scratch of the needle on the Victrola is drowned out by the shrill whistles of newsboys shouting about Cambrai, their voices raw in the biting December wind. Every heavy boot on the pavement sounds like a march, and I can hardly breathe for the dread that this lousy war will swallow us all before the clock strikes midnight. I watched a chauffeur curse as he paid $0.15 for a gallon of gas, a price as steep as the tension in the air. Between the talk of "votes for women" and those terrifying new drone torpedoes, the world feels like it’s snapping apart just as fast as a new-fangled zipper.