The world stands like a frozen waterfall, a river paralyzed, impossibly. And silence replaces its rushing call. In stillness, it spurns gabbling audibly. How can a cataract become so hush, its business being unceasing motion, spending its days, constantly in a rush, dispatching raindrops back to the ocean? Yet, now it's a tower - still as a stone - that looms like it's never known transience. Its icy curtain, hard as a shinbone, offers a wholly different ambience. I can see its beauty, but am still sad, thinking the falls should be beyond the fads.