One day the factory started to dream about things he liked.
The white clouds in a cloudless sky, the button box that was his mother, shells buried in the sand on the beach, crayons kept since I was small, the tiny wild flowers found in the countryside, princesses and monsters of the stories that gave him his sister, cakes swelling behind the glass furnace, the drawing that he made his nephew, dead branches creaked under his feet when walking The box ties, moss moistened by drops of rain, dragonflies sometimes approaching your plants, books he had read, leaving the smooth eggplant in the garden of her boyfriend, the songs sometimes humming.
was so much that it was then decided to make objects that produce bubbles of oxygen that people breathe better.
