This short note is written on Thursday September 26 initiated exactly at 3am at the 66th street stop, while on the Bronx Bound 1 Train. It is the kind of day that crows don’t crow anymore. It’s the kind of day that the scandal is no longer scandalous. A pan shot widens to show a landscape without landscape, a water­fall without water, a cowboy, a buffalo, a mortuary, a noose, a jury hung. A day without justice and without breath. A day which exceeds itself in delivering the night. A day not unlike itself, a day like any other. It is a judg­ment day without judgment. It is a hell without the heaven. It is a day of reckoning with nothing. And thus the fullest day. A day full of biographies whose lives escape them. 3:21, 157th street.