September 11 is a bitter day, a sullen and grey ache. Politicians are propping up their image with their response to the anniversary, and I go to lunch with my wife, I send emails to friends, and I hope for better days.
Later that night, I notice the spot-lights spearing the sky, creating a nebulous glow in the clouds, and shafts of blue light that flicker with the fluttering of bats drawn by the moveable feast of insects in the light.
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