I photographed that sunrise.
I've been moaning and groaning at myself that I need to post more of my work, that there's no time because other things come up and shove aside the time for art and photography.
In another place I commented that I remember certain names, the names of the five people who died in this town when another someone went on a bit of a spree. I refuse to state that name.
I don't know all their names, the people who I learned, on that peaceful sunny morning on September 12 in Dunedin, New Zealand when the alarm radio came on, had died halfway around the world in the city of New York, on the fields of Pennsylvania, and on the banks of a river in Virgina. There are many people who know some of the names because they are related to them, friends with them, worked with them. Probably there are even some who know all the thousands of names. Someone, somewhere, may even know the thousands on thousands of names of those who died in the seven years subsequent to that day... are still dying. Because of that act.
And right about now is when I learned about it.