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line_art_illustration,Zhongshichahua,The twilight creeps over the battered roller shutter door of the hardware store,where a girl in faded school uniform clutches a half-used piece of chalk and draws a crooked bicycle path on the cement floor. A sanitation worker wearing woolen gloves squats down,using a cloth to soak up the frozen phlegm stains,his knuckles turning into rusted screws from the cold. A vegetable vendor in a floral jacket suddenly puts down the scale weight,scoops an orange that has rolled into the traffic back into the nylon bag of an old woman,mud splattering onto her cracked rubber boots like medals burned into old canvas., The metal buckle of the first aid kit jingles lightly at the nurse's waist as she kneels to treat the glass shards in a homeless person's foot; the moment the alcohol swab is torn open,the streetlights turn on. An old man at the repair stand inserts the last ball bearing into the toddler's tricycle,his oil-stained palm prints overlapping with the candy wrapper handed to him by the child. The wind flips a page of the migrant worker's diary under the bridge: "Screws must be wiped often or they will rust." The gears of the entire city mesh in the dusk,the corroded joints warmed by the body heat of strangers,spitting out fine golden sparks,one of which is enough to ignite the boiler of the era.,

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