Draft 3: Where the streets have no name

The alarm clock falls with a 'ding' and a 'crack' on the dark floor. 3:47 am it reads.

She sighs in usual anticipation of a sleepless night. Only 3 hours of sleep and apparently the house tells her it's enough. A slight whispering breeze floats in, feeling like some kind of soundless chime, echoing some distant meaning.

It beckons her to her window. No stars. Just streetlights, and little boxes of light from other sleepless rooms. While cars of big proportions seem to sleep so soundly under porches. The envy.

All of a sudden, she can't remember if she's been living here for long. There's a certain familiarity with the unfamiliar. "The consistency of the manufactured," she calls it. It's always been here in a way, and yet it takes no colour from our presence.

How is it so empty, when it's so full of our things, our precious things? With her head hung low, she tries to ponder on a window jamb. No moon to light the darkness of silhouettes even.