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It is a ghost town in the financial district today. The sidewalks seem thinly populated, the anxiety that's descended on us palpable and viral. People leer at each other in fear and loathing, as if they see manifestations of disease on the skin and faces of those they pass. Their stares linger for a fraction of a second too long before they avert their gaze downward, always downward. So I cross the street, then cross back to the opposite side. I avoid squares, corners, heavy traffic. I imagine a string still attached to the top of my head, and myself pulling this string upward to maintain the illusion of great height. My horse, though top heavy, digs its hoofs down into the shifting sand. But what is that foul stench I smell? This gas, if ignited, could set the entire world in flames. Is that fool again attempting to create a spark with the heel of his shoe? If I close my eyes, all ceases to exist. I do remember this working the last time a feeling of terror found its way into my bloodstream. Why shouldn't it work again?