April 18, 1906 – My brain was incapable of understanding what was happening; I could not even process the situation clearly as I felt the swift, yet terrifying movement under my ears and feet. The walls shrieked and the lights flickered in an almost synchronized manner. I felt the depth of the pounding movement beneath my feet; it would not stop. The picture frames, ornate with all the memories I’ve kept with me until this moment, fell on my silky Persian carpet. The glass from the frame shattered and I cried in agony at the precious captured shots I could never replace. Trying not to lose my balance, my first reflex was to extend my arms, reaching for something, anything like a desk of some sort that could offer me support. The mahogany handcrafted coffee table with its bamboo legs from Italy that my grandfather gifted me rattled at a quick pace from side to side and I failed to grasp it firmly with my bare hands. The countless drills at school that I underwent in my childhood did not prepare me for this moment. I took a dramatic fall to my saltillo tile and crawled on all fours to my door. I know it was not the smartest nor safest thing to do, but I had no choice – death was inevitable. I trudged down the collapsing, barely in-place stairs of my Parisian chic penthouse in San Francisco, crying for help. I thought to myself and considered whether death was my fate. I thought I had much more to live for, as I grabbed the locket that contained a picture of my mother when she was twenty-three, like me. I would never see her again; in fact, I would never see anyone again, new or old. Why did I not get the time to appreciate what I had and who I had? Guilt and regret was controlling my mind and I screamed for help from the thirty-second floor of my apartment, but no one came. Perishing in the rubble was starting to become the least of my concerns at that moment, as the pounding of the floor was starting to become the pounding of my heart.