Last week an apartment building near my house exploded. I was still awake when it happened — a frighteningly solid thump around midnight, as though a car rammed into a brick wall. I got up and stumbled around the house, looking to see what the cats had knocked over this time, but other than looking around with some confusion (not at all uncommon), they were placid. I looked out back, and to the apartment building next door. A rather loud gentleman who may or may not have been a resident was walking around outside in his boxer shorts, asking “What the hell was that? It sounded like a motherfucking bomb went off!” Which, on reflection, in did.

The sirens started then. My house is a mile form a hospital, and a couple of miles form a fire station, so that wasn’t a surprise. It mainly just confirmed that something had indeed occurred, and that it was enough of a something to warrant a bunch of cops and firemen and paramedics screaming down my street at midnight.

When I got up I saw the notices. Low income apartment building. Big explosion and fire. Over a hundred people homeless, several still missing. (Since then there are several confirmed fatalities.) It did a fine job of reminding me that you don’t have to travel far to find a tragedy.

Emotional Weather Report: Apprehensive, with a mild pall expected to hang over most of the day.