I wasn't there yesterday.
It hurts. It hurts a lot. A strange sort of guilt, and a lot of disgust.
What is the use of art? Literature, drama, philosophy? What is the use? You sit there, listening to great ideas? Performing untruth? Enchanted by language?
What is the use? We suck.
I arrived just after the last man was extricated. I saw crowds gasping, gaping and obstructing the path of rescue operations. I saw people who felt useless even though they were there, bang on spot. They could have sone something. Anything.
This sort of helplessness and futility may I never feel again.