as they stroll by the info board, off for a baguette or a finger of java at Brew? There’s a record player by the window there, an arcane, first-spotted device for some sippers, I imagine. The paint-peeling board strikes me as some similar totem from the past, its local councillor missive, lost cat plea, windows cleaned cards, all inked and scrawled. Like the book, its old design must still work, and it’s a voice for the last hold-outs and mavericks that shun the screens. So there are moves too to stop the cash-only hipster outlets, lest it bars the bankless. I still gaze at the info boards. I still try to write and draw, when I get the chance. But the gulf between worlds grows wider.
