Chad Gives Voters What They Want: Less Kenya
Noons, set to punch verifying conduct, silly to be thinking of it, when all sets forth with obviousness. When the time comes to look back, it has already been wrangled with, no need to present self to mogul who is there, dead in his tracks, accompanied by public disparity as the grading unit sets ink into voterhood, skin humming with flu, ideology. You are one thing, desecrated above lamp which none can look towards, so guessed at, appealing to habit that president hasn't set into yeast, risen morning after morning in the cables of art's supplementarity, the art that crams into location. That there isn't serfdom, yummy calibration that sets young over old so suddenly and without its destiny, lopsided after winter dumps its tornadoes on Texas A&M. Your goal is the same as ours, to levitate maligned desk over head and write, spoken to, observed, dissed by a computer world, adding machines moving ugly herald past bedtime. To the order of fab death, putting down one answer over function, a cushion moved from the room recreated as instrument demonstrates casual sum's multiplicity, Iraq as orchestral glovebox. At value lies cluelessness, ours wrestled down from first ox, careful electability which spreads idea to race, fishy ostracization.
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