W.L. Rusho

Then, there will be no music but the sound of rushing water that breaks on pointed rocks far below, and the sighing of the wind in the pinyons - a warm wind that gently caresses my cheeks, ruffles my hair tenderly, and wanders downwards. Alone I will follow the dark trail, black void on one side and unattainable heights on the other, darkness before and behind me, darkness that pulses and flows and is felt.
Then, suddenly, an unreal breath of wind coming from infinite depths will bring to my ears again the strange, dimly-remembered sound of the rushing water. When that sound dies, all dies.