“The falling man, do you remember him?” He was a waiter, you say, or a bartender from a floor or a window too high to reach or escape and so, he chose a passable route, from the smoke and flames, and evil and sorrow. “I cannot forget,” I say. He chose to leave by his own will or by his own insanity. And all I can think is, “who could blame him?” and how on that day, and at that time, 9:41 and 15 seconds I could do no more than weep. But he, he walked toward a paradox of certainty and freedom; the choice seizes my comprehension. If it was a choice at all. “I wonder what he thought,” I say, wondering if he thought anything at all, if in that moment of conviction, he experienced clarity or confusion, nirvana or terror. You close your eyes, “…I’m trying to imagine what he thought, the range of emotions; incomprehensible.” Did he have time to think? Did he say, “This can’t be happening?” Did he know? Did he realize? How could he? God, I hope he didn’t
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