Flying on September 11.
I once believed I could never do this.
This isn’t the first time.
The number 911 is in my life almost daily, I notice 9:11, am or pm.
I spent the morning on the phone with IRS explaining how I chose not to pay federal taxes into the wars that came after 9/11.
The skyline still looks empty and small to me.
I’m still an anticapitalist.
I still remember hearing my dad’s voice for the first time that day after his office was destroyed and making some new agreements with the universe.
Being an adult at the moment of 9/11 seems a more clear generational marker than any other I know.

(9 sentences.
Or 11.)