I had a scary dream. I drempt that I was out at a picnic in a wooded area on the fourth of july. I still had a clear view of the sky. All of the sudden a bunch of airliners passed overhead. They Barely avoided hitting each other as they went towards some universal destination. All of the sudden one of the planes, it was blue and white, had the body separate from the head of the plane. The body seemed to keep going but the front of the plane had all of the people from first class fly out and fall to the ground like little specks of dust dropped by the sandman of death. I remembered, in my dream, that my father had taken out a fight the same day. I ran hurredly through the forest into some modicum of civilization, CNN Center. I called my father and he was fine. He told me that 37 planes had been hijacked and that they were all blown up by US Fighter Jets but that he had not been on those planes. I walked outside and the debris from the airliners had fallen all over the city and started hundreds of fires. The Fire Department was out-matched by the hurdle god had thrown it that day. The city was in flames and there were rioters in the street. I walked across the street into centennial park and I looked at the thousands of corpses all piled up into a gigantic peace symbol as I looked at it from overhead and I looked at myself from over head and I looked at the city from overhead and I looked at the nation from overhead and I looked at the planet from overhead.

And then I woke up and all I could remember at first were all of those people, as Salman Rushdie said, flying without benifit of wings or parachutes, out of a clear sky.