Manhattan, NY. It is September in Central Park, a few days before the Seventh, and the excitement is literally palpable. Along the paths and across the lawns, little kids skip to ultracompetitive kindergartens with visions of Fox News war-on-terror graphics dancing in their heads, counting off the seconds till the next History Channel investigation of the special relationship of steel with burning jet fuel. It's that same kind of morning as well—warm and cool, four-dimensionally blue, girded with arches of towering light—the kind of perfect fall morning that New Yorkers of a certain generation will always associate with disbelief and poor cell phone reception and show-stopping acts of mass murder.
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