Restless, by Alex Smith

What do birds have to sing about at 3 a.m.? It was another battle with insomnia again. There were no deadlines. No one was awake to call or text. Then again, after moving around so much, everyone was a flake. She had already counted all of the pens and pencils in the old chipped coffee mug, which perched on the desk. There wasn’t anything she wanted to watch on T.V., no new books to read, and still too early for coffee. She lay back on the bed, eyes staring at the ceiling fan, as it lazily turned. Three hours until sunrise.

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