He loved to make worlds. He would sit in his room of an evening concentrating dust and chemicals, melding rocks together, letting there be light and separating it from the darkness. He loved to try out combinations, to get it all working together: the right mixture of gases, the right surfaces, mantles and cores, a precise orbit for satellites and the correct balance of gravity. He loved the fiddly, painstaking, absorbing work of it. When they were as perfect as he could make them, he would store the worlds in old shoe boxes; sometimes separately, sometimes in artistic clusters. He painted the insides of the shoe boxes black and arranged lighting effects so that the worlds, spinning delicately within, were shown off to their best advantage. Afterwards he would sit admiring his handiwork for hours until the urge to make another world came upon him and he would put the lid on the shoe box, push it into a cupboard and forget about it. 

Though planned worlds were fun, sometimes he would just throw together gases and hot dust for the sheer pleasure of seeing what he got. It was one of these free-expression worlds that got him into trouble. One day as he was throwing gases and dust together with particularly wild abandon, he knocked the embryonic world off the table and it rolled away under his bed.