I have gone out into the morning of dim sun, needing a tiny flashlight to see beyond the oxygen and fog that dance like self-conscious teenagers. The trash barrels hug the curve of the street and there are cats and other miscreant rodents sniffling in some of the bags. The recycling bins are filled with pizza boxes and beer bottles. There are bad grades and broken-heart letters hiding at the bottom of the refuse.
There are others now, who are stumbling out of their homes to start their cars in their underwear and sweats and tank tops, rank with the odor of sleep. Sweat soaks their backs. With Fresh coffee on stinking breath, they are as unthinking as sex-zombies. The early-birds; REM still controls them.

Sorry, should be paragraph break where "There are others now..." starts.