Never ever forget, no matter how many times Obama and his crews try to change the dateline.
September 11, 2001. A day set in infamy. America was attacked on this day and almost 3,000 men and women were slaughtered in a gastly way...no warnings...no attack warnings...no military threats. It was an act of terrorism. Never EVER forget that day.
What do we do about all of this? Do we go after the killers in an armed conflict with SWAT patrols or do we attack this thing as if this was an act of war?
The defeatocrats want to "call the cops". That's dumb. I'll never understand that call. You?
The Falling Man
More on the Falling Man from Flopping Aces:
At fifteen seconds after 9:41 a.m., on September 11, 2001, a photographer named Richard Drew took a picture of a man falling through the sky — falling through time as well as through space. The picture went all around the world, and then disappeared, as if we willed it away. One of the most famous photographs in human history became an unmarked grave, and the man buried inside its frame — the Falling Man — became the Unknown Soldier in a war whose end we have not yet seen. Richard Drew’s photograph is all we know of him, and yet all we know of him becomes a measure of what we know of ourselves. The picture is his cenotaph, and like the monuments dedicated to the memory of unknown soldiers everywhere, it asks that we look at it, and make one simple acknowledgment.
That we have known who the Falling Man is all along.
Do you remember this photograph? In the United States, people have taken pains to banish it from the record of September 11, 2001. The story behind it, though, and the search for the man pictured in it, are our most intimate connection to the horror of that day.
In the picture, he departs from this earth like an arrow. Although he has not chosen his fate, he appears to have, in his last instants of life, embraced it. If he were not falling, he might very well be flying. He appears relaxed, hurtling through the air. He appears comfortable in the grip of unimaginable motion. He does not appear intimidated by gravity’s divine suction or by what awaits him. His arms are by his side, only slightly outriggered. His left leg is bent at the knee, almost casually. His white shirt, or jacket, or frock, is billowing free of his black pants. His black high-tops are still on his feet.
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Sic vis pacem para bellum