Thx. And it is a hybrid of poem and prose.

Man that day sucked. I didn't leave my desk until every employee was accounted for and had a place to stay [if they were trapped in the city like me]. I think I got to the Williamsburg bridge about 6PM going to my best friend's house where I showered off cement dust and ash I didn't even notice I accumulated and coated my skin and colored my hair a sickly grey.

My last memory of the day is being in my buddy's backyard in Williamsburg after sunset and partially burned memos snowing down. I think he still has them. Some things I just can't collect.

The next few months sucked, too.

My main memories was the stench of the smoking rubble. I still believe I have the ashes of victims trapped in my lungs.