well, now we have to question the motives of those who are looking for photos of the before skyline; item:

LOS ANGELES, California (Reuters) -- The online auction site eBay has banned the sale of all World Trade Center and Pentagon memorabilia after everything from chunks of rubble and bits of glass to video tapes of the disaster appeared for sale within hours of Tuesday's attacks.
...
The ban covers legitimate items such as postcards of the soaring twin towers of the World Trade Center -- a landmark now obliterated from the New York skyline -- as well as more grisly mementos seized by bounty hunters from the rubble.


I heard a report on CNN that someone was attempting to sell "before" postcards for $30 per.

Posted this in the really long thread, repeated here for convenience of anyone who is interested.

http://emergencynews.ukonline.gov.uk/

Should you wish to express your feelings on reaction from UK, click on
http://www.royal.gov.uk/vbk/index.htm

The NYC website : http://home.nyc.gov/portal/index.jsp?pageID=nyc_home
Click on PHOTOS in the right column under picture of Mayor of NYC and there is a small photo of the NY skyline with the World Trade Center. Click on right hand link to mayor's photo gallery for larger pics or go direct to
http://www.nyc.gov/html/misc/html/hgallery.html

TV is currently broadcasting the funeral ceremony of the Chaplain of the NY Fire Department, Father Mychal Judge, OFM (Order of the Friars of Mary {Francisans}) at St. Francis Assisi Church in NYC.
Father Judge died of heart attack when debris fell on him as he was giving Last Rites to firefighters and police at WTC collapse. The massed pipe bands of Fire and Police departments played "The Minstrel Boy" as the casket was carried in.
Here are the words as I remember them from years of singing them.

"The Minstrel Boy"

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you will find him
His father's sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard
"Tho' all the world betrays thee
One sword, at least, they rights shall guard
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could not bring that proud soul under
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again
For he tore its chords asunder
And said "No chains shall sully thee
Thou soul of love and brav'ry!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery"

If you have a Windows Media Player you can hear the music at http://www.ireland-information.com/irishmusic/theminstrelboy.shtml

It is a beautiful day, today. Clear skies; the rains have damped the dust inferno at the battery. Were it not for the rent fabric of a wounded sky, for the pervasive dance of buildings toppling to ground, for the insistent memory of the disappeared and fallen demanding shape in consciousness, it would be possible to take this for a normal day. Itself, the weather’s beauty, for now and spring are New York’s gentlest seasons, the blue and yellow daylight a monument of foreboding: clear weather, no delay in flight—the perfect day for a coordinated attack. In the park, sunlight falls on readers open books, women’s bright faces, happy chatter, a man with burlap on his face, homeless, apparently, wanting sleep. The every-day pathos of the city. Today is my first full day back at work.

I was here on Thursday, but when word came in Grand Central Station and surrounding buildings were being evacuated, I left. Not wanting to wait and see if a building would come down around me, or to find myself in the chaos of a general evacuation. North of Union Square, a mile and a half south of here, a policeman told us to turn around and walk the other way. I told him I lived “down there.” He said, “You see that car? There’s a bomb in it.” I thanked him and did as I was told, heading east on 18th Street to continue south on Park Avenue. A woman walked in a chain of holding hands with her three daughters, coming toward me. I told her not to bring her children there. She thanked me. Her accent was British.

It was not until I reached the restricted area below 14th Street that I felt safe again. North of there, people didn’t quite seem to understand what was happening. It was noisy, congested, chaotic.

We had dinner that night, our first sit-down home-cooked meal. Spaghetti, wine and salad. The TV was off, and so was the radio. It was possible to talk. And then, later that evening, the subway rumbled by. The city insisting on life.

rent fabric of a wounded sky, for the pervasive dance of buildings toppling to ground,
You dear things. You will never get over this, but I hope you will be able to resume functioning somewhat normally after some more time has passed. You have our hearts and our support, any time and all the time.