It is Tuesday Evening, Wednesday morning 2 Am in Brooklyn, New York, just a short ways from the Brooklyn Bridge, at the home of Rivative.

I was awoken from a slumberless night at 10:15 am by my chattering housemates. From then it was the TV, and the World Trade Center buildings smoldering images, then to the streets, where scattered groups of people, workers, streamed away from Manhattan-bound subway stations.

The dusty air had people wheezing and covering their mouths as they took quick steps down the sidewalk. People were talking, wondering, trying to get home to watch the news or close their windows to prevent the ashy soot from entering.

The Arab community in my neighborhood, which is prominent, was half in and half out. Some stores were still open, others were closed, but down Atlantic there were not many turbans to be seen.

I continued on towards the water, where Atlantic Avenue meets the East River, where a giant shipping port carries cargo to Puerto Rico. There, maybe 2 miles south of Manhattan's lower half, I could see nothing but a giant plume of smoke and dust, billowing towards the direction of where I was standing. Soon, particles of white ash scattered to the ground like snowflakes. I saw a piece of paper, once quite high in the sky, ripple down into the middle of the street where a young boy jumped up and snagged it out of the air. He stared at it intently, flipped it over. There was nothing on it but some printed letters. It was not very important. It was debris, dead and signifying nothing.

* * *

There was a a strange assessment of the situation by New Yorkers, mostly Brooklynites that I spoke with along the way. People were calm. People were respectful, sometimes humorous. They were talkative, and forthright in their opinions. They carried themselves with ease, did not belie nervousness or fear. They were black people, middle-aged, young, old, white people, young and middle-aged, and old, and Hispanics, and others and everyone brought different speculations towards the situation and relayed information and scuttle that had passed them. People were courteous and helpful. people watched, and some were shook. Most were not. Just a catastrophe, not a catastrophe or anything.

More, so much more.

I am tired now and should soon off to bed, as my eyes grow dim. There is a simulacrum of the Towers. There are images of the towers, and images of them collapsing, and being hit and burning, but for 14 hours all we can see from here in Brooklyn is smoke, haze, a giant unearthly fire that will not die. The haze is a scrim, a screen for the Towers. They are there in our vision until they are gone, until we can no longer see them in the skyline.

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