Hyper-nationalism is a wildfire in disguise. It senses fear, anxiety, want and distress with perfectly-poised skill. I am Nepali and, thus, we sigh while richer, stronger willingness brings forth capital vows in the amphitheatre marketplace named value in ideals. Ours is a scrupulously traditional terrain. We do the carbon sequestration and the rest trade in it. There was mention of diamonds in the rough just a while ago. The ladies must keep the pooch in fur not faux. Termite resistance to oppression was a political application and remedial revolt here. Buildings do not signify builders aplenty. The earthquake can be seen, through this lens, to be a tour de force, a vehement treatise, a shake-up of other-worldly methodologies. Magnanimous natural forces have since counter-acted our dependencies with fresh and wholesome rain, hail, frozen food from the backyard farm. Steadied by communal, costumed banquet halls, we emblematize a responsive design microcosm - the stealthy, streetwise group with silken, soufflé lineage. May Day, may day, May Day!
The Exxon Valdez spill reached Nepal at an unyielding time. Yields are productivity gains now. Large swathes of undulating grounds are the new spots (where it all happens) for the common good, for nourished and well-behaved ethnicities, for healing bruises from diminished faith and fancy shoes. A bicycle is considered fulsome exercise, including of rights hitherto cloistered in kingdoms. Savings, searches, synonyms create the ambience for self-sufficient actualities. Existentialism was read up on. Absurdist art crawled out of the woodwork and exhaustively defined the othering, a heretical articulation of selfish delusionals, our mitigation disaster called extremism. The polar bear saved icy neurobiology again. But the snow will not melt away those arid, acerbic sins of omission nor commitment. The mythical dragon called the media has lain the foundation for self-identification. Judged and judicious, the Nepali publics is home for good.
Innovation for all went well. While the comi-tragic modernists were configuring the hypertext, protocol resumed, as a slap on the back, and took to scale a Neanderthal motive called reduced slavery. As we churned in and out of technocratic might, they enslaved themselves to the wrong number offense named a missed call. Poverty, the acid attack on humble Asiatic, was reduced by the people's ire. War is a dangerous, humanized installation. Peace propagates despite the obviously unwelcome transmutations that plague social animals and other such race-based groups. Spotty, superman, scooby-do, doogie howzer and the like have finished their earthbound job and enjoyed what is left of the weather. Manufactured and manufacturing empires do not contend the will of the Queen. The divine right is over but the LGBTQI presented wily events that erased ill will. Former sharks in sharp suits are inhibited in conversation and we were told to mention. We could be heading for the much postponed, rescheduled Sattya Yug, once the remittance transfers are in. Cooperatives are high on the scope. Technical collaboration resulted in a sublime; infrared shield known as the gadget. Gazetteers, too.
The authenticity of beaten rice was litmus tested. It is a savoury offensive. Indian sweets were brought to bear on bionic but steamy developments. The irate pirate flew into a fit of race rage, road rage, anger over redacted legalities that harbour well but bay badly. The statuesque, neo-West Phalian classicism of singular times has transited to plural, self-sauced, Mohammedan beards. Keynesian frameworks could be solvable, prime time games for tele-mobile gamers who favourite but do not comment. It takes Sophoclean insight to challenge likable authority but it was chief braveheart to whom the shareable question was posed, thrown, disingenuously speared for the good of the planet. Profits for all is in the offing. Scaffolds do wonders for spatial life. Murals, though, are divested to other worlds with whom there is an unspoken, unwritten history but, quite literally, no connection. My contact list could be a cyber secure, median, dance-off talkathon narration. I speak Nepali with a slighted nuance.
The primal, primeval years have passed. Serums, potions, care teach me to digress, preservation, a pure science of self. Indigenous lands are guarded and the big altitudes have treated misdirection, ghetto resolves, a kampong cartel called the social life of culture vultures. Sunny dispositions will be rewarded with laughter, gaiety, discord satire. Gloom, doom, transgressive bondage will learn to see the light, the sacrificial lamb, the liberal incarnate. Conservative politics is decoded for irrational, inadvertent victims of the degenerative world order called the arms race. Sputnik was mentioned - I can feel the Yankee Zephyr make its rounds, barred only by entombed astrophysicists who shook hands with the mascot. The derby was filled with magenta and magnolia. Sumo wrestling is over. Grazing and boxes of nicety summate the sullen, syntactical errors; home is a gardenia of introverted empathy.
Exaggerated precis writing could break the deadlock. The errant bottles are drying and so were the bonus mud-packed sachets. Prisoners of terrorism and conspicuous pantomime, we have unleashed the human prerogative of hustling, bustling bookshops. The geocache might lend some consonant exertion. The bookcase lives on. Exonerated theses, however, will rule the day. My hypothesis is a catchment of elliptical programatics. Illicit liaison is gone. The ritual was grand. Days are not nights. Lunch is dal, bhat, tarkari. The sorbet is better than the rest. Cleopatran mastery and mystery were overanalysed - figs are good with cheese too. The music maestro celebrates birthdays. I ate brownies at the café. There were disposable revenue generators, flying colours, festival happiness in a glass of juicy ice and tea. Elixir for the masses and classes will be served not stirred. The mass affiliation era was understood via mass affliction, sectarian book binders, extra toppings. The genie was at a golf meeting, mostly.
