It has become an iconic vision: two towers, sometimes just one, smoke and dust billowing out of holes gaping in the sides. There are some views that have a blurred aeroplane entering the frame, but most do not.
There are video versions, usually showing the surreal, almost slow-motion collapse of a once-mighty building.
Often these iconic images are accompanied. The still photos given headlines: "Bastards!", "Terror!", "Infamy!", "Why?!"
The video images have music. Dramatic music, or patriotic music, or sad music.
The World Trade Centre is the symbol of the murderous attack upon the United States that fateful day.
A powerful symbol, don't get me wrong.
However, the World Trade Centre was a building -- or buildings, if you want to be more precise. For all that it has become a symbol, it was -- it is -- still only a building.
There is no mother's love for a building. No one carries a building under their heart for nine months. And though we say that we care for buildings, when it come right down to it, there are none who would replace their children, their flesh-and-blood, for the concrete and steel of a building.
For me, the symbol of 11SEP2001 is not the burning World Trade Centre. The iconic image of that fateful day is not the collapse of hundreds of tons of concrete and steel and wood.
To me, what defines the horror of that day is a brief video clip taken by an unknown news crew. After all this time, I'm not even sure if the video clip in my memory still matches what I actually saw on the television that day.
But this short series of images is my truth of September 11, 2001.
It is a video shot of the burning towers, and in the background, a woman's voice is commenting, rambling, trying to deal with the absurdity of a terror attack on US soil. Something in the screen catches her eye, and she begins to describe the debris thrown out of the building by the aeroplane's impact. Office supplies, I seem to remember her stating, as the camera zooms in on something falling.
Only ... it isn't office supplies.
It is a man. I remember that he is dressed in a light coloured shirt, and dark pants, but no jacket. I remember the detached, monster part of my brain noting that he hadn't bothered to take off his tie.
He's tumbling as he falls, arms and legs flailing at the air in absolute panic stricken terror; the lady narrating suddenly realizes what she's looking at, and gasps, "Oh, my God."
And he still falls -- because he has hundreds of feet left to go before he hits the hard, uncaring asphalt.
Hundreds of feet left to think whatever thoughts he's going to think before he dies. And he knows he's going to die.
We don't see him hit, because the cameraman snaps his lens, his electronic witness, back to the floors where the red and orange flames lick hungrily through the windows, and just before the video feed ends, I hear a voice -- too strangled to know if it belongs to a man or a woman -- say, "They're jumping."
Maybe this isn't as palatable an icon as the Twin Towers. Maybe it's too messy, too violent, too evil for our sanitized, 30-minute Hollywood world.
But it is the reality of what happened that day. Innocent people going about their mundane, everyday lives were viciously and savagely slaughtered by a pack of sociopathic misfits.
Let us not forget that mother's children were butchered by the thousands on this day seven years ago.
Let us not forget that the evil that allows men -- convinces men -- to commit such acts of slaughter is not only still among us ... but in some places this evil is celebrated; in some places this evil is tolerated; in some places this evil is forgiven.
Let us not forget that while buildings fell -- human beings, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, loved ones -- died.
Above all, let us simply not forget.