Tuesday, September 20th, 3:28 P.M.
A brisk wind whips around the roof of the high rise
I find myself on, adding coldness to a dark day, a dark day the mid-afternoon
sun is powerless to make lighter. The
rooftop is cold and dark but the offices of the charity housed in this building
are darker. The doors are fractured and
only hanging on by a thread. Every speck
of glass is shattered. Spread out on the
floor, papers, clothing, and backpacks are torn to ribbons, everything inside
those offices just looks destroyed. I
couldn't find a trace of Delany in this building. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad.
Hato Shurtleff
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