Since 9-11, what I can't get out of my mind whenever I see this photograph is the sight of small human figures falling, in what seemed an agonizingly slow motion, from the upper floors of the World Trade Center, the people who jumped to their deaths rather than be burned alive.  Impossible, unbelievable, and obscenely cinematic as it was, I like millions of others saw these people die. The photograph has now become painful for me to look at, a mockery of what I thought I was recording.  At times it has felt close to a desecration, in which I am complicit.

As in all brushes with that whereof we cannot speak — those moments when words fail us, when the tapestry of sense suddenly unravels — nothing means quite what it did before. The world has changed irrevocably, in ways that alter the past as much as the future.  Things need to be stitched together again, differently.

from "Silence as a Vocation, or, Whereof We Cannot Speak: Notes for the First Anniversay of 9-11"