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33 R O A R I N G B R O O K The running luminescence of the sluice unwinding down the pudding-stone slope, laced with white foam, creating one s after another; the word silver nearly audible in the sound of its rush; the splash and churn at each bend and cascade. Slanted beams of sunlight filling its effervescence and every pool; the effluence pouring out of the culvert; the sound of the flow of what is infinite, framed in the moment, or of say, just being able to glance at all that is written on the long wall of the akasha. The sounds of the water falling down the mountain, sliding from consonance to assonance so many times they entwine to become the spool of a spoken word, voice itself, fluidity. ...

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