The sensation of watching myself on the television as it recalled to me unceasingly the proximity between airport and terrorists, myself and hostages, deceptive nearness. Exhausted from the evening and the town’s general oppressiveness, I sought shelter in the hotel restaurant and was seated alone at a table for four, pressed against an imposing window. I took a moment to think on the attacks which had stranded myself and others, for I had little else on my hands and was left to watch the other lost souls drift in like so many flitting shadows thrown on the courtyard wall opposite by ivy and some hidden light. From the hotel room, I wrote these lines while watching a television man cataloguing the various kinds of aromatic plants and his quest to immortalize the sense of smell, forgotten in the day-to-day press. Words ran together on the screen, a wash of Latin and the vulgar. Words are what I will find stowed away, months later, in a simple Notepad document from the desktop, an artifact of stranger times. This preposterous framing and posturing is what you were supposed to avoid, I hear her voice say. Is it, I answer.