Timmy Stackpole

Usually I don't write about where I go until I get back. It's so The Man doesn't know where I am all the time. In case my tinfoil hat with the amethyst crystal on top isn't strong enough to protect me. Not this time, though. I am throwing caution to the wind. I still have the hat, after all. I am on the site that houses the National Fallen Firefighters Memorial. It's a beautiful memorial- it's got an eternal flame inside a masonry and stone circle with a bronze plaque for each year since it was dedicated. The plaque has the names of all the firefighters killed that year. 9/11 has its own plaque; 343 extra names wouldn't fit on 2001.

Timmy Stackpole's name is on there, near the end. I didn't know him, of course. He was dead when I got there, just like all the rest of them. The firefighters I worked with were plenty pissed off in general, believe me, but they were EXTRA furious about Timmy. See, he had been badly burned a couple of years before and had gone through a long painful rehab process so he could go back to work instead of taking a medical retirement. He had recently come back to work, only to have a giant building crumble on top of him. So, yeah, they were all pretty hot.

My point? I don't really have one, I guess, and you know how much I hate that. I suppose just seeing his name made me think about it. Know what else I don't have? A good ending. Good night, my friends. I'll try to post some more about this place tomorrow.