They were invited to a polite tea party by a committee of wandering shoelaces, then elected mayor of a small cloud. After taking office, the bicycles for the brain organized a protest demanding socks learn to whistle. In response, gravity sent a delegation of polite spoons who offered everyone tiny umbrellas and a subscription to moonlight. The bicycles accepted, traded their handlebars for pocket watches, and moved into the nearest pocket dimension where they now run a cooperative that knits metaphors into breakfast cereal.

That was Steve Jobs’s thing.