Cloud Cuckoo Land

It is early enough in the clouds for the members of Kraftpark to still be briefly disconnected from their bodies, and late enough for them to have started, which is to say, it could be any time at all.

"I really don't have anybody to talk to here with so few people," Ralf grumbled as he sipped on a margarita. He'd certainly tried - he'd even gotten the bouncer to grunt once before shrugging. "What good is life without action -" he thought - "even if you have a tiny democracy climbing up your mortality?"

"Yeah, I'm kind of the opposite," Florian answered. He really hoped he sounded non-conflicting. "I wanna work some things out here with myself, but I'm the most alone in a crowd, you know what I mean? So... yeah."

"If I get twenty more population, then I can shift all my forelegs into ruby points... Argh! these drugs are interfering with my drugs!" thought Klaus at nobody in particular. He had no particular interest in personal growth, or in his surroundings, not even now. Now, growing his oxhousehemper bulbs on the other hand... with the amethyst counter... Argh! Dammit! Not again!

With that settled, the three resettled, in a lack of a flash, to the Café Cuculia - a  Viennese Café for all time. It was their lucky moment, since right now, for one century only, Cuculia was staging Aristophanes' The Birds once per day, on the minute.

Ralf, Klaus, and Florian lost interest in the play after a few minutes (Klaus: "I mean, what the fuck IS a hoopoe bird anyway?") and wandered inward or off to their own pursuits. Klaus' are uninteresting to us, as we don't play Rise of Rock City, so let us turn to his bandmates.

Ralf rattled around like an electron seeking a suitable energy state, and quickly encountered a near-tableful of fossilized scholars.

"The rays - properly speaking - are not colored," argued Isaac Newton.

"No argument here, Herr Newton! And I thank you for teaching me this concept! One might even go so far as to also say that objects have no color."

Thomas Merton sternly and slowly contributed: "By Gaston... a daydream... is an evasion," prompting Newton to shout "Well that's a non-sequitur!" and throw the cherry tomato from his salad at Merton, who simply shrugged and continued his Bachelard party.

Ralf was now a little fluffy cloud. "Light creates the colors," he glistened. As long-time residents of the clouds, his conversation-mates were fluent in Glisten, and they all nodded in agreement. Ralf rained a tiny mist of relief.

Florian, meanwhile, also had no outward pursuits, but he was outwardly pursued, with many of the night's guests walking up to talk to him, mistaking him for a wise man. To name but one example, there was the Sad Skinhead:

"Do you think I see it right?" the skinhead asked, wrinkling his forehead.

"Well, how do you see it?" They rose from their chairs and, with an subconscious understanding, walked to the wide window overlooking the Cat House and, farther off, the Cloud Bar.

"The cloud looks [at this he gazed at a cloud in the distance and counted off on his fingers:] white, white, white, white, white, which means - white is the greatest color of them all!"

"And that makes you sad? I mean, you look sad, man. No offense."

"White's the greatest color!"

"You sound crazy! Maybe that's why you're so sad. Are you sad because you're crazy? I mean, really no offense! I thought by my age I'd finally know to not put my foot in my mouth..."

The skinhead brightened up a bit. "Thanks for caring how I feel."

"Hey, that sounded reasonable."

"I AM reasonable. I just mean that white is a summed-up color. It's every other color added up. So it's greater than any other color."

"That's... technically true, I guess, but... do you know what a skinhead is?"

The skinhead blushed. "Do you know I can't not look like this?"

"No!" Florian shouted enthusiastically. "Tell me more!"

Their conversation continued on into the nubicuculian night, as the play ended and the cafe's crew of eternal punters gathered around the flatscreen to watch some kind of reality-TV show.