I am about to die. It is September 11, and every cell in my body is acutely aware of my looming demise. The certainty of it. The inevitability. Not years from now, not weeks nor days. Moments.

When there’s only God to blame, we forgive him. When it’s our fellow man, we destroy him.

Evan Price is not a man to be questioned. He is a man who will question you.

Run, we think, as buildings crumble. Run, as people perish.

We devolve into animals when we creep near to death.

"What we control," Juliette said, "is our actions once fate puts us there."

It was a sad loss, this illusion of importance, a humbling blow.