From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Tactile
I press my thumb into the rough, notched cedar of these Lincoln Logs, feeling the friction of the wood before the splinters can bite. Outside, the air vibrates with the scratchy phonograph melody of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles," a hollow tune for a world still trapped in the psychological no man's land between a ceasefire and a lasting peace. I drop $0.06 onto the counter for a single loaf, the paper wrapping feeling flimsy and cheap against my skin. There is a simmering heat in the Senate today, a friction as coarse as the wool of my trousers, as they argue over a treaty that will dictate the shape of every shadow my generation is destined to cast.