“Good morning,” said the biker to the three curb-sitters, and they appreciated it. He wore a safety vest—like an elementary school crossing guard—with two neon reflective stripes, up and over the shoulders. He bicycled quickly, in the middle of the road. The sky was dark, but streetlights created the illusion of sunlight, the orange effusion casting long shadows. The shadows seemed colder. This did not matter. The curb-sitters still sat. The biker still bicycled.
The biker passed. And they (the three curb-sitters) all agreed. It was a good morning, indeed. Right at this moment, it was a good morning. 4 A.M., early on Wednesday.
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