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.