Deftness did the deed. Agility has found a particulate, pressing dichotomy. Allegro and articulate, we re-awakened an aviary of chirping life. The rough cut on upper highland travel garrisoned the primeval chord of inter-connectedness, resolved the wayward distances and dispositions, furthered the ecological separateness which made every country a haven. Large, intuitive systems of attenuated co-efficiency proved the theorem called subtraction. Exploited by egocentricity, the belle was wrath itself. Moments recanted became a currying of flavour. My gleaming gastronomical exploration into a life less bleak worked itself into a pronouncement of astronomy, astronomical sums, the figurine as nurtured muse. I retreat therefore I live the agonizing return to taste, to tasteful sensibility, to the soup spoon of indomitable courage. The lemongrass must be fresh. Canning the socio-political ebb and flow of the commiseration prerogative, we carpe diem.
This afternoon's cathartic walk in the premium address of our restructured nationality became a trite observation, that transience now a vestige of misanthropy, an essayist's turn of phrase. As life returns to a polity, so do the traps, the trappings, the courtier's conspiracy filibustered as nihilism. Counterinsurgency, too, has run its course. The revolution will be pre-fabricated, proliferated wirelessly, an untethered rangeland of bucks and mozzarella. The hooves of history are covered by soft, suppliant artifice. Material philosophy threw the gauntlet and turned an ungodly past into parochial, picture-book humour. There are stones, bricks, cementing support structures everywhere. Little wonder that the chamber is a boudoir. The relics are, safely, inside the museum, in the photographic repository we log onto in the same pagination, as a political imaginary called verified public ownership. My electronic piano is throwing up novel apparatus.Our good-neighbourliness was not rewarded although digital perks do relieve an over-careened classification. Noam Chomsky will be read not rerun.
My super-drome of informational responsiveness was pithy, dull for many, Dronacharya's dogmatic interjections for an identifiably political time, for the merry in a populist explosion. I read for a while but wrote my designated number of characters with great competence. The bi-carbonated world of bi-nary linguistics was an upheaval, uplifted and alleviated only by the campaign we call society. Gadget junkets replaced the junkies with AI on their minds; manna from heaven was seen as a small coin lying haplessly by the tree of knowledge -we cannot rest until our super is roasting the beans. There was talk of power and freedom - we know so much better. It must be freedom from power. Or is it empowered by freedom? Have the powerful recommissioned the Yogi? Life's little renunciations appear fallible, flimsy, equated with trickling streams rather than the avalanching torrential of the upstream dynamo. That sudden rush of nature's goodness surrounding the world with fluid dynamics and scientific discourse leaves them unimpressed but inked with precision tactics. Dante was allegro, too?
Exclamation points are inductive, additive, enunciated as propagandist radicalization. Jihadi Jane reminded me of that precursor named fire. With pseudo-rationalism on the rise, my comrades and I turn to hill-side terracing where many products elicit a torrid gaze, the very anatomical distention of sights and sounds, an unequivocal extension of helping hands that refutes all popular claims of might, right, deleted strength. Wildlife trade was illicit once too.
Moreover, part and parcel of the Kronos are the unbeaten paths, those baskets of ingrained virtue, the premium we so mistook for the prom. My advancing garrulity was archived as a tap dance tune. My newly charged enthusiasm for mobile hotspots must never waver. I will try the shortcuts. Woven chance and sewn sympathy have gone to the backwaters. Black pools of rain dot Nepal's interior. Exteriorized by readiness, we are winsome in song. The minstrels sang; ministering perfect cadence, the narcs ran to Cleo's Carpathians. The plebeian run around was, diligently, recorded by our canine rescuers. They looked like an emoji waiting to be etched in and vindicated by the world's imagination.
