Opening cereal boxes silently becomes an art form when the house still sleeps, each crinkle a potential wake-up call. The milk's cool cascade follows, a quiet morning ritual.
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Morning traffic transforms highways into rivers of red brake lights, each vehicle an island of impatience chasing elusive destinations in a city that never slows.
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An old receipt tucked under the fridge magnet reminds me: milk, eggs, kale, toothpaste. Oddly, nostalgia smells like forgotten grocery lists.
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