September 11, 2001
6:40 am

Visions much deeper than a knife travel through me, around me, into pools of dried blood and paint. From the chips, they fall… captured stories to which I share. There’s got to be a hidden message! It’s then, I’m given a thought, “Never expect a stone to talk… ask your heart, it’s almost just as hard.” I see footprints headed toward murky waters… do I choose to follow, or prepare for their mud covered return? The guts of a cow make up my face—burn me til dead; I don’t want to return again. Why am I singing Amazing Grace?

9:03 am I sit watching, two incredibly tall buildings are spewing smoke! A 737 airplane has hit one of the towers. Is this a terrorist act? The news anchors are in question—they’re feeding our minds, our fears, our worst nightmares.