Steam wafts from forgotten coffee, casting shadows on a keyboard as sunlight creeps across a cluttered desk. Dust motes dance briefly, then vanish into the morning air.
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Morning coffee steam dances, tracing invisible spirals above the cup. Nearby, a squirrel boldly inspects forgotten picnic crumbs, uninterested in spectators.
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Staring at the clock, Jim noticed each tick sounded like a distant drumbeat, signaling not time passing, but minutes marching in some unseen parade.
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