It's an overcast day on Bleecker Street in New York City. Traffic grumbles past the door of this particular cybercafe that sits not far enough north of Ground Zero. Yesterday, my wife and I made a sort of pilgrimage down to the rubble that used to be the World Trade Center. We didn't say a lot as we watched the cranes and the workers continuing to sift through rubble six weeks after two jetliners slammed into the twin towers. What exactly can you say? Should you? Thousands of souls remain buried in that wreckage. At the time, discussion of any kind seemed terribly inappropriate.