Epilogue: Of a dialogue
The bittersweet story of life is the wasted land. The evening, with "the patient etherized on a table," became a rallying cry, a treatise to change, the loud inviolable that plunged injustice into its own dark abyss. An absynthine return shakes hitherto uncharted foundations but the principle is crossed in time zones. An ensuing and reciprocal ease is called zen, the unaccompanied symphony now dormant, a parakeet's parley. The dream of bittersweet endings is a reactive, reduced land's end. To recount the majesty of natural formations parcels a tragicomic undertone. We are symptomatically human, fallaciously assigning undaunted pride to some and prejudiced by others.
The deep identity of place and implacable earth will not need interpreted, disguised discourse anymore. Glocal is another interesting word. Heredity is not a cup of tea. The times new roman bourgeoisie is an encircled phalanx of grand vitriol. Ask not what your county can do for you. Quand tu s'ait petit? Articles of re-established faith abound in Nepal. Sometimes, there are monkeys in the ritual cleansing, ridding the vermin too often seen to be plastic bottles. It does matter that we are an endogenous group. The curtain called buttressed continentalism was solely a signatory success. Other hammers and sickles season the world in a spectral fugue - the banded, brighter, beleaguered combat scribes for whom home and heart are fundamental.
Extremist ideas do not cut dry grass anywhere nor sheath a clash with silver in hinterlands made for close communities. Tinted rays bring good tides, frictionless co-evolution, aired grievance. Syncretism is the lost synchronicity, synthesized only by theory, which one can presume without judgement. The differentials, the strokes of genius, the folks who build nations are dotted around, not diaphanously plotted for the next wave of the agora as was rumored on television. The grapevine, though, is here to say it all. The Daedalus in us has arisen. We shall express ourselves as we were, too. While spatial planners see opportune lots, I have captured the unspoken melody of historicity, of Nepal's unshorn relativism, of their livelihood programmatics freed in time.
Frescoed salience is knowing the turf and sandy silt. There is much to report and discuss. The barta was timely. But, people are sheltering, soldering, seizing the nation's brick loads in anticipation of the Turkish bath we call our country. The road did not lead to purgatory. Instead, the realized world, real and dust-ridden, is clear and present. The magic realism of our forgotten, forbidden shanty will be as distinctive, possibly, but the manifesto is mould and caffeinated. The rewilding of the East did not transform the worn-out well of earlier Suns. The gilded pot held empty by rewarded hands was illusory, elusive, a transition. Discernment is back in the game. The game of life has earned its eighty-four courses. The glazed, narrowed, velveted gems known as the Nepali are smiling.
The haze after trauma and tiresome, tealed fascism is a new warning, an old pardon, telekinesis itself. The venture capitalist matriculated profit in the adventure kibbutz. Veiled magnanimity is a confessional exhortation. Extracted, the extortionist was a cunning cartoon, a serving of punitive damage otherwise relegated to restitution. The might of isolation, dissolution and counter-terror is a winsome fable. Solidified on stone, the law is the referenda. The jabberwocky of inordinate mileage was mellifluous. The Melamchi waters that have, finally, reached the Capital are an ordinary boon. Assuredly, we can put the residual, the banal, the cruel disgrace of war behind us. Urban javelins a.k.a warriors of the last resort sought to parse, morse, erase the disregard we call lesser mortality. Router enabled and search facilitated, the equalized will cure the biosphere from unapproachable degradation - Vaastu is a shastra, too. Free thinkers, free associations, free wifi have rescued the swastika and Om is sage refuge.
