refugee status is the branded hypo allocation which gives criteria like no other sensation, if the brain can make decisions silently without others knowing, standing still is the only way to thrill the silence going on silently in the background it's there, beneath each buzz of a bug, or the moving of a chair, crackling beneath the rug, as the dust collaborates with the tasseling of tessels where the fabric complicates, bah what ever, never ever said I'd never say never ever.
Cote Ivoire is where a soccer game is taking place in the streets or in an alley, children running fast to chase, as the ball careens gently, quickly kissing the ground before somebody boots it in it's face with irresponsible actions as it breaks a window, the shatter can be heard through out the village. People come look, just another case of mistaken identity took. Taken just in case you're wondering, I wasn't mistaken, my words I've not been blundering, purposely to say the least.
Using your eyes take the grandest feast, take as much as you like, save me none I won't plea. I leave these words here now not for mockery, but simply the case of a mistaken goal debauchery. I'm excessively insistent that's for sure to say the least. I am unnecessarily consistent with my actions when I lead.
Fed up with the harm caused by indecisive instability, get up with the going from indiscretion of tranquility, that which is desired every so often is admired as a topical approach to dealing with nondiscriminatory confessions of a broken in soul, left abound unsure now where the end of the line is going.
refugee status, like a known unknown, around on the ground, but you don't know where it is you're going. Incorrect is the attempt to effectively defect from that which it is that haunts you so your directing retrospect, parallax the view away from what's through what is the case, encase yourself incase the place is overrun with rabid elves, or rotten birthday cake.
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