prevalent

The feeling of dread was prevalent. Everywhere she looked, people seemed anxious and worried. It was like a cloud hanging over the whole town, a quiet fear that everyone shared.

The quiet hum of cicadas was prevalent in the thick summer air, a sound so constant it was almost missed. It was the soundtrack to lazy afternoons, to ice cream melting too fast, to feeling a little bored but safe.

The smell of stale, fermented bog water was *prevalent* in the poorly ventilated spore chamber. It clung to everything, a constant, heavy reminder of the decay. Everyone who worked here knew that damp, unpleasant odor; it was simply how things were.

Squirrels with tiny hats are surprisingly prevalent in the park. It's not just one or two; they're everywhere, chattering about acorns and the best spots for nut-hiding. Honestly, the tiny hat trend has gotten quite out of hand, but it makes for a very funny sight.

The sight of tiny, knitted sweaters on squirrels was surprisingly prevalent in Oakwood Park. People found them adorable, and soon, every fluffy-tailed critter sported a miniature, acorn-themed pullover. It was a bizarre but cheerful fashion trend that became, well, common.

The grim worry was prevalent among the townspeople. Every conversation, every whispered rumor, centered on the dwindling food supply. It was a constant, heavy feeling that seemed to touch everyone, a shared anxiety that had become sickeningly common.

The constant hum of the bio-luminescent fungi was now the most prevalent sound in the under-city. It was a dull, pervasive drone, a constant reminder that this dim, moss-slicked existence was the norm for everyone down here. You just learned to tune it out.

The smell of burnt ozone and something faintly metallic was prevalent in the abandoned data bunker, a constant reminder of the short circuits that had rendered the servers useless. Dust motes danced in the thin beams of my flashlight, illuminating the same cracked consoles and tangled wires I’d seen in every other hushed, forgotten hub.

Glitter seems to be prevalent in my house now, despite my best efforts. It's on the cat, in my coffee, and I'm pretty sure I just found some in my ear. My toddler's artistic endeavors have made sparkly chaos a common, widespread occurrence.

The strange fascination with collecting novelty cheese graters was surprisingly prevalent in the small town of Sprout Creek. You'd find them everywhere – on dashboards, in birdbaths, even occasionally worn as elaborate hats. It made visiting awkward, especially when Mrs. Higgins offered you a cup of tea from her personal, llama-shaped grater.

The tired sigh was almost prevalent in the waiting room; a common, shared feeling of weary anticipation. So many people, all just waiting for news, the same anxious quiet hanging in the air. It was a palpable, widespread tension.

The chill in the air was a constant companion on the obsidian plains. Dust devils, a common sight, swirled endlessly, their presence almost a defining characteristic of the desolate landscape. This ubiquitous grit made every meal a gritty affair, the fine particles somehow finding their way into everything.

The pervasive fear of the spore blight was evident on every face as patrols returned. Reports of wilting bioluminescent flora were prevalent, dimming the once vibrant glow of the underground caverns. A quiet dread settled in, a shared understanding of their dwindling resources.

The peculiar habit of wearing mismatched socks was surprisingly prevalent among the local wizards. It wasn't uncommon to see a stoic sorcerer with one argyle and one polka-dotted foot peeking out from under his robes. Apparently, their magical focus was so intense, such trivialities were blissfully overlooked.

The peculiar habit of squirrels hoarding individual, brightly colored socks was becoming alarmingly prevalent in the neighborhood. Each morning, a fresh assortment of mismatched hosiery adorned their arboreal abodes, baffling residents and frustrating laundry day. It was a sartorial epidemic of epic, nutty proportions.

The gnawing worry about job security was all too prevalent amongst the artisans. Whispers of layoffs circulated through the workshops, a palpable anxiety permeating every corner as the economic downturn deepened. Everyone seemed to share the same grim prognosis.

The persistent hum of the bio-luminescent algae, a ubiquitous sonic intrusion, was now so prevalent it had become the background noise of existence on Kepler-186f. Sleep offered little respite from its droning, a constant reminder of the pervasive organism colonizing every surface, its faint glow the only light in the perpetual twilight.

The oppressive quiet of the Martian colony was a pervasive, chilling silence, broken only by the hum of life support. Isolation was prevalent, a constant, gnawing dread that settled deep in everyone’s bones, even the seasoned geologists. They longed for the clamor of Earth.

In this particular epoch, the ubiquitous predilection for artisanal sourdough, despite its often recalcitrant crust, has become remarkably prevalent. Whether it's the purported gut-health panaceas or merely the seductive aroma, this fervent embrace of fermented flour permeates every farmers' market and gastro-pub, making a non-sourdough existence a veritable anomaly.

The peculiar malady of spontaneous polka-dotted skin was surprisingly prevalent among the denizens of the Sub-Aquatic Slumbering City. Merchants hawked iridescent mollusk paste purported to cure this unsightly, albeit jaunty, dermatological quirk. Tourists, oblivious to the rampant contagion, often found themselves with a rather festive complexion by day's end.