First Nations

Somewhere, below rows and rows of grey peaked roofs there is a glow. It is a glow that emanates from two sources, the first being a little computer screen, the second originating from the eyes of a peculiar boy. First Nations is his name, and his fingers flash in the half-light, over keys and tone knobs and his eyes shoot sparks and lightning into the air before his face. And from somewhere, below rows and rows of houses, there is a noise. This is the same noise that is made by your heart when you sleep