I remember nights where I’d hug the side of Tower One, pressing against it and lift my head as far back as I could and stare up until the glass met the sky and I’d get so dizzy I’d stumble back. Hours sped by and we’d drag our sorry asses back to the train and to our tiny apartment. I remember many nights sitting on this ratty red paint peeled bench staring across the river at Jersey, specifically the Colgate sign, and just talking about everything. No matter what path we’d take, it was our destination. only through the Village or SoHo and eventually our meandering would lead us to the Towers. We were broke most of the time, not much into clubbing, so about 4 out of 7 nights we would walk. Can I use the excuse of being in shock during the actual event? That it seemed like a movie?įlash back: The second half of 1994, my then boyfriend and I living in the East Village, 23 years old and clueless. Then I became upset that this piece of fiction could invoke such melancholia. I cried more over this book than I did on the actual September 11th. I cried on the couch, I cried on the bus, I cried at stoplights, I cried at work. There are books that affect me and then there are books that kill me.
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