I sleep not to rest, but to forget. In the morning, when I wake, I know nothing.

I am lying down on a couch in a room where the curtains that hang above the open windows are motionless, corpse like. I am sweating; my mouth is dry. A television, a coffee table, and a copper lamp resolve through shrinking pupils. A wrinkled copy of Electra, a tragedy about a spiteful woman, is stuck to my arm. I am in the living room of my apartment. The skeletal green numbers on the digital clock say 10:40. I have twenty minutes to travel fifty-eight blocks to the north, or I will be late for a class that is called “Relentless.” I brush my teeth in the shower to save time. I dress, and walk out ont the sidewalk. It is 10:51. I live near Columbus Circle, on West 58th Street in New York City, on a street that is close to the middle of everything. Tall buildings block out the sunlight. But the sky is cloudless, and so bright that I am forced to squint so that the skin on my nose bunches up like an accordion. I walk in long, fast strides—my left foot lands in one sidewalk slat, both feet land in the next. It is unusual that on such a warm autumn day there are no dog walkers or joggers.

On the corner of 59th Street and Broadway, the gate that leads to the uptown subway is locked. Across the street, by the giant silver globe, policemen stand in front of the subway’s main entrance. Yellow tape that says ‘Police Line Do Not Cross’ blocks the entrance. And there are no buses. There is heavy traffic, but there is no horn blowing. I will run to 66th Street and board and uptown subway.

But the sidewalks are too crowded for running. Perhaps these sidewalks have never been so crowded at 11:03 on a Tuesday morning. People are walking, but nobody seems to be saying anything. The only sounds seem to be the hideous screams of emergency sirens. The gates at the 66th Street subway station are locked. I will be late for my class. I can feel a bead of perspiration run from my armpit, down over my ribs. My back is wet from perspiration. I am afraid that soon a V shape stain will darken the back of the heavy blue sweatshirt that I am wearing. I am also afraid that something terrible has happened; maybe something on the subways. I use my cellular phone to call my roommate at his office. There is no answer. I leave a message that says, “Steven, I think something terrible has happened. Call me if you know.” I have no money in my wallet, but I will find an Automatic Teller Machine and withdraw money to pay for a taxi.

On 70th Street I see a neon red sign that glows “ATM” in a deli window. The deli is so crowded that I cannot find the ATM machine. There are people buying bottles of spring water and cartons of cigarettes and bread and milk. The ATM machine is not in service. The bank on 71st Street and Amsterdam Avenue is closed. My roommate has not called me yet. At a bank across the street the line snakes around the corner. Many of the stores that run along Broadway are closed.

So many people are gathered around radios. I do not understand what they are listening to; cannot hear what the voices coming from the radios are saying. A homeless man stands, sweating though his quilted winter coat, listening along with a black woman who wears her hair in long blonde braids. I know her. Late one night, she said to me, “White boy, for fifteen dallahs I’ll suck your dick.” I told her that I was very sorry, but I was trying to save my money. Right now, though, she is leaning straight legged and with all of her weight on her forearms. Her head hangs below her shoulders, and her braids fall over her face like torrents of a golden waterfall.

I have decided that I will miss class. A woman sits hunched over on the sidewalk. She has vomit all over her skirt and blouse. Strands of her hair stick together. Salvia hangs between her fingers like trapeze wire. People are gathered around her trying to help. A man has his hands clasped under her arms. He is trying to lift her. My roommate still has not called. The man next to me wears a wrinkled taffeta suit. His tie is loosened and his shirt collar undone. We have been walking side by side for many blocks, but have not spoken. When we pass the subway station on 86th Street, I look at him and say: “Sir, excuse me. What happened?” He begins to stammer. He holds a white plastic bag. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, and I do the same. From the plastic bag he pulls a framed photograph of the Manhattan skyline. He points to the Twin Towers and tells me that he bought this picture because, because you see those two buildings, they don’t exist anymore. There’s nothing left. He stops talking and we begin to walk. He does not speak to me.

I am tired. I can only think that tonight, when I need to most, I will not sleep—there will be too much to forget.