real journal entry
Wondering if I will regret more that I did keep a diary of these days, or that I didn't. Not knowing what the future will bring, I don't know what comfort words will bring now, or what purpose they will serve in the distant years.
It is nearly 11pm now. The newscasters are exhausted, but not relieved by any of the anchorwomen who could take their places. The images are overplayed and only Fox is brave enough to say that they have others, but we don't want to see them.
The facts will be well recorded, and perhaps as this is read, uninteresting. Here are the human interest stories of my day.
25 ear-old men have no frame of reference for what they are facing, but they know it looks cool on the Internet.
If I strap a ceramic blade to my leg and board a plane, is that a breach of security?
Would I have the courage to crash a plane rather than let it be hijacked? How could I be sure this is a better choice?
At this time, everyone seems sure the mastermind is bin Laden, because we can't think of anyone else.
George W looks like a chimp.
The sky without planes is eerily quiet, and empty looking. In the deep silent night, every passing car sounds like an approaching jet. I slept some on the couch, some in my bed. But always with the lights on and only fitfully.
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