The roar was still in the air, the buckling rumble
of the fall. This was the world now. Smoke and
ash came rolling down streets and turning corners, busting around
corners, seismic tides of smoke, with office paper flashing past,
standard sheets with cutting edge, skimming, whipping past, otherworldly things
in the morning pall. It was not a street anymore
but a world, a time and space of falling ash
and near night. He was walking north through rubble and
mud and there were people running past holding towels to
their faces or jackets over their heads. They ran, confused.
Paraphrases from the novel Falling Man by Don DeLillo.