Morning commutes reveal peculiar rituals: a man balances coffee precariously, while a woman flips through adventure novels, each lost in distinct worlds, oblivious to honking chaos.
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Beneath buzzing streetlights, crisp leaves crunch. A lone cyclist glides silently, yellow scarf trailing. Nearby, a dog barks at its own shadow. Night hums quietly.
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Cereal box mascots never blink, silently judging breakfast choices. Meanwhile, toast protests from the toaster, craving a spread revolution.
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