Perhaps water rushing without a moment's rest - twisted and chafed in a heavy surging mass - plunges over the brink of the precipice as if glad to escape into the open air. In all the hissing, clashing and boiling clouds of spray, the years break up and pass.
Maybe amid the mist and foam my mind dances off with its own weightless reveries that surface briefly before being swallowed in the heave, watching as winds sway the whole fall from the front of the cliff, then suddenly dash the water flat against it.
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