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, by the leaves when they fall from the trees, and by the rain on your eves in the dark. It sweeps like waves, it rises like concrete, it shudders like a wild thing. If you listen, in the night, in Suburbia, you just might hear it.
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