My gut spoke. Leave, it said. Leave now. Go.

I left. Then. Right then. No words. Just out. To the stairs.

The emergency alarm blares...buzz...buzz...buzz....

There had been a break-in in my building on Sunday night. Stole some computers. A cover up from planting a bomb? How stupid I was not to have left when my gut had told me before. Is this how it ends? Bringing it upon myself? Too stupid to listen to what is most important?

The sick, sinking feeling in my gut grows strong. I want to vomit. But, can't. Not now. Not when there is a chance. No, not now. Go. Just go. Go, and go, and go, and go...

I pass an old man walking down the stairs. Sorry old man. My gut says go. I was too stupid before. I won't be this time. No. Just go. Go. Go. Go. Go.

and the alarms continue

I fight the thoughts "more bombs, bombs planted here Sunday, I'm so stupid, why am I so stupid, why am I not on the Brooklyn Bridge, walking home right now" go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go

I land in the lobby.

It looks like a late afternoon in winter outside. A blizzard. At twilight. People stand around in the lobby.

I ask what happened.

"a tower collapsed"

"both towers collapsed"

"they're gone"

"no one can go into the streets"

"they're not letting any one out"

Bull shit. I must leave. Must. My gut says go. I will go.

I walk first to the front of the building where the building men are holding the doors shut, then to the back which is cordoned off. I go back and forth twice, three times, trying to decided which way to leave.

I look at Yael and Candice who have both just found me. Their faces are of...pain...I know of no other word. The pain not of loss, not of hurt, but of fear.

I say I will leave. That I don't feel right here.

"Don't go. It's safer inside."

My gut says go. It jumps up and down, turns over on itself to get my attention. GO.

I look out onto Broadway through the glass doors.

Nothing but a lone man in a dark suit scurrying through the blizzard of dust and soot.

I hesitate - should I convince them, Candice and Yael, to leave with me?

My CEO bursts in. He wears a thick layer of white-gray dust over his whole body, shoes, pants, shirt, hands, face, hair. The only thing you can see of his natural color is the area around his eyes in the shape of sun glasses. He storms across the floor.

I grab his shoulder, ask him what happened.

"The tower collapsed." He has no more time to speak to me and bolts up the stairway in back.

I walk to the door, open it, and look back at Yael and Candice. I see only pain.

A woman snaps "Stay or go. Just close the door."

I go.

And, out into the alien white landscape full of debris and footprints, like those on the soft dust of the moon.

Towards the south street sea port. I really don't know where I'm going. I had been meaning to find out how to use the ferry, but had just never gotten around to doing it.

How stupid of me.

I walk south and east, away. I find people, streams of them going that way. I follow them, feeling all the while as if I could and would be struck from behind, from above. I keep my mouth shut against the dust. It covers me. Covers my glasses, gets trapped between the lenses and sunglass-clip-ons I really no longer need. It's a morning twilight on a beautiful September day without a cloud.

Most people are walking towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Many have masks on, those surgical masks from Duane Reed or Rite Aide. Others have bandanas across their nose and mouth. Some are bleeding. Some have bandages. There is blood on the side walk, making a pinkish pudding in trails of drops and globs.

Sirens. More Sirens. Flashing lights. People covered in white. All walking, just walking to the same place, to safety, to anywhere but here.

Occasionally, people swallowed a mouthful of water from a bottle and spit it out, others used the small spigots sticking out of buildings' foundations.

The pall felt like a new kind of air, like a new way of being, of walking, almost as if underwater. It stank of concrete and burn.

I could smell the Fulton Fish Market now. And, somehow the sun started breaking through, down, at the end of the street. I could see parts of the bridge, the FDR. People crowding across them, a stream, an exodus.

I just kept walking. There was nothing else to do. Just keep going. Just go. GO.

Cop cars, lights flashing, crept through the streets crowded with people walking. Still those sirens. Still twilight. But I could see the sun now. I wondered if I could find the ferry.

I found a sign to South Ferry and the South Street Seaport, and turned down towards what I imagined was closer to the ferry, right through the heart of the Fulton Fish Market.

On the street, we walked, the survivors. Along side us were the workers of the fish market, in boots, jeans, t-shirts, aprons.

"we have water, ice, paper towels. What ever you need. Water, ice, paper towels"

In teams along the whole market, a first man would give out paper towels, a second would wet it with a hose, a third handed out ice from a large plastic bag on a chair.

When I got my towel wetted to wipe my face, clear my eyes, I asked where the ferry was.

"Back in hell. Just turn around, and hang a left in the center of hell."

I kept walking towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Just kept going.

I then noticed the tightness in my cheeks, in my jaw, that hard, grinding tightness of hate and anger and frustration, like giant balls in my face. Even my teeth ached.

I could see the bridge above me now, and rehearsed what I would do if they should blow this up while I crossed - lose the bags, lose the shoes, the jacket, and swim - just go.

I was too far east, directly under the bridge. There were several ramps. Some, the furthest away, those back towards what had been the twin towers were the obvious ramps, but there were several more closer and people were taking them all. Confused, I just took the one that seemed to be going where I had to, and walked.

It was the wrong one I think, going to the FDR. I turn around and ask a man who has just asked a police officer if this was the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Yes."

But then in moments, people are walking back, saying it was the wrong one.

I ignore all directions now, and just walk to where I can see is a ramp. The sign reads to the Brooklyn Bridge and I wait for the traffic to pass in front of me to cross and finally get to the bridge, even as I walked back towards the plume of smoke.

Sirens. Hot bright sun. White dusted people. Mostly silent people. Some walked with friends, telling them, and themselves, where they had been when it all came down. I still couldn't really think. My face hurt. The sun was hot. I was hot. The plume of smoke billowed out over the East River and Brooklyn as far as I could see, past everything.

Then Beethoven appeared to me again. Those triumphant strains of the 5th, of having made it through suffering through sheer force of will and determination. This filled my mind. In my imagination I saw the bows fly across those strings to make something so beautiful. I filled myself with them, pushed away all other thoughts. No, Beethoven shall walk beside me. Everything else was far, far too heavy, and threatened to drop me to my knees, make me sick, vomit down myself and over this bridge. I had to know that somehow, beauty can still exist. That this, at least, had not been stolen from me. It was mine, and only I could give it away. And, that I refused to do.

As I walked across the bridge, I could not bring myself to turn around and look back at what had been the twin towers. I would be seeing that every day for the rest of my life, but now, I couldn't bear to look.

Just GO.

And so I kept going.

The sun glared down, hot and bright. I took off my jacket, and wondered if I looked the same as those around me - covered in white dust, and dumbfounded, vacant, or pensive.

Nausea would hit in a wave whenever I thought of what had just happened, when I thought of what might happen next, hoping that the Supreme Court had chosen the right man 8 months ago. At those moments, I would bring the 5th symphony back - I would not let anyone steal this from me.

As I neared the end of the bridge, I saw a group of people looking back towards Manhattan, some taking photos. I gave in. Stopped. Turned. Looked.

A plume of smoke. Nothing else.

What did I expect? How does one see absence?

I walked and kept walking, through downtown Brooklyn. Just kept going, sun hot in my face, cheeks knotted, eyes caked with dust, stomach sick, not thinking. Can't do that. Can't. It's too big. Enormous. Just hum Beethoven. And keep going, keep going.

Some people wait for buses. Others walk. And the sirens. And the plume of smoke overhead.