Typing furiously, she realized the keyboard clicks sounded like distant raindrops hitting a tin roof—soft, rhythmic, yet oddly comforting amid her looming deadline.
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Underneath flickering neon, a lone skateboard rolls past—a silent street symphony where wheels whisper secrets to cracked pavement, each rotation a momentary rebellion.
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Lost keys always hide in plain sight, mocking our frantic search. Meanwhile, the toaster conspires by burning breakfast, its rebellion timed perfectly.
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