Socks always vanish after laundry, yet mismatched pairs gather. It's as if they hold secret meetings, plotting mischief. Who knew footwear had such mysterious agendas?
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Morning sunlight dances on the toaster's chrome surface. Crumbs scatter like tiny breadcrumbs. Coffee steam curls lazily, whispering warmth into chilly air.
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Tiny ants formed neat rows, transporting crumbs toward a secret hill. Nearby, a child watched, fascinated by their silent teamwork, wondering if they ever take vacations.
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