AI Text Quiz: Human or Machine?

When you board the train at quarter seven, when you stand in the crush among the striven: the tunnel hums its heavy drums bodies pressed in the door-recess: A stranger's mouth, a half-formed word, the voice, the breath, the sway. What was that? Perhaps a place preferred... swallowed in thoughts that fray.

When you go to work early in the morning, when you stand at the station with your worries: the city shows you, smooth as asphalt, in the human funnel, millions of faces: Two strange eyes, a fleeting glance, the brow, the pupils, the lids. What was that? Perhaps your life's great chance... gone, scattered, never again.