It's Wednesday. I'm working. Okay, I'm at my desk. I'm not actually writing working, but I'm doing work gearing up to writing, working. I take breaks. I eat. I go to the gym. I run. (Gee, when is there time to work we wonder?) Still, THAT is my concern of the day. In my apartment on this Wednesday, that is my only concern. Until I turn on the news.

Bush had a press conference. That's nutty enough. And then I find that a PLANE has crashed into the 39th - 41st floors of a high-rise just across the park. On the East Side. A building where people are doing just the same things as me. Just living their lives. Making toast. On the phone. Shopping lists running through their heads of what to do next, what's going well, what's not. But could anyone ever think that in the next minute a plane piloted by Yankee, Cory Lidle, would crash through their living room window?

It was an accident. Accidents happen. Falling out of a tree and breaking your leg is also an accident. This is a devastation. Sad. And so random.

People are dead. Onlookers are scared. Astonished. Grateful. Relieved.

Anyone who is reading my blog is just plain old lucky. Life, these days, is almost surreal.