In the beginning there was sky. Friends were kept in petit drawers inside the screen, in boxes formatted to fit their chests. Like chicken, their hearts were always bigger than their chests, wanting to come out, wanting to beat out. But no, everything was smoothly planned to stay in one place. Their boxes were part of this sky, where a concrete bridge ran through full of cars so distant that they muffled time (but capitalized it too). One by one, like eggs breaking with a creaky sound, they bursted into the mind of the writer who assigned a finger to go and look. This is what happened in the beginning. It was a full time job for the writer, and a delicate one too, to have so much sky in his mind and only one finger to order and sustain.
