09/11/01: The disturbing act of posing for snapshots.

There's a black cloud over Manhattan.

Although the fires have subdued and the dust doesn't climb to the sky anymore, the smoke still lingers and blows through the streets. It creeps deep into our being and settles there, gnawing. The initial shock, disbelief and spectacle have given way to a dark, thick smog of death and sorrow.

The huge chunk of physical and psychic space that was destroyed weights heavily in the air. The dead appear all around us, staring at us from times of joy in the photographs that were placed across the city by loved ones with a last hope for a miracle. Two weeks have passed and the pictures have grown wrinkled and the ink slowly flows to the ground. They are but one of thousands of New Yorkers we've lost, just down the street at the landmark that centered our existence here.

The absolute magnitude of the evil that has been unleashed upon this city is going to take a long time to dissipate. The machine grinds on and the daily routine is re-emerging. But the hole that was blown out of downtown has altered the city forever and it has spread a dark melancholy into our lives.