Elam Mudrow has a way with words. Feel the coolness of the water as he spins and waves his tale.
This stream is the coldest my hands have ever touched. If there is a bottom to its shallowness, I can’t find it. The water seems so damned clear, too clear. I think I should be able to see, but I can’t. It must be the water’s rush against the rocks that makes it to see even the reflection of the sky.
This stream leads to a river. I can feel it. Its mouth is trapped behind the forest. I swear if I touch that mouth it would sear my hands. But, I don’t know this to be true. It’s good I keep numbed, unable to feel the pebbles disturbed below.
I read the movement of the water. I can understand only so much of it before it gets lost. Perhaps, the writer is confused and has lost the sense of its direction. That’s an easy thing…
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