From the day
Perspective: The Future Historian · Tactile
I sit on the frozen curb, the rough wool of my plaid skirt scratching against my thighs as I methodically organize my stack of plastic Pogs. My fingers ache from the dry winter air, but the slick, neon surface of my heavy metal slammer feels like the only currency that matters, a stark contrast to the **$1.15** I just watched my brother begrudgingly feed several crumpled bills into the gas pump. It is a total buzzkill watching the digital numbers climb while I adjust my tiny nylon backpack, its thin straps digging into my satin blouse. I can feel the shift in the timeline, a world caught between the tactile scratch of flannel and the invisible pull of the coming digital age.