How am I ever supposed to get to school with no music? The reporter keeps going on and on about some field and a plane. Tragic, I’m sure, but why interrupt my music?! Why is there terror in their voices? No one died. Plane crashes happen, so do deaths in the shower, what’s the big deal; Tragic, I know, but why interrupt my music? The answer came later, at school. The hallways rumbled with identical, unsynchronized reporters on all of the T.V.s. walking by I only got fragments of sentences, “Trade Centre”, “crash”, “plane.” It seemed those careening planes were sick with the feverish aim of national symbols. I stopped in front of my own class, scared and confused. I saw an image of a man in a light tan trench coat with the look of practised grief. I saw my field and the mangled carcass of a plane. I saw the horror in those voices I heard earlier. No one interrupted and I no longer cared about my music.