Totality had enveloped the earth, there was no room for fragments. Orthodoxy was the norm, which was to be expected. And yet there were loopholes.
Dry things were at an all time high. The forest was about to set into a kind of blaze. It was that time of summer where parched lands foment a revolution, or a teenager smokes a cigarette and burns down a million acres, just for the hell of it. So dies and is reborn an ecological symbiotic biospherical stasis. Or whatever
Into this equilibrium floated a cloud, who was named Klaus. Klaus was the only cloud in the sky, which had long gone grey with perpetual blankness. The horizon for example was on vacation, for all objects had lost their vanishing points. Rainbows were mere figments and 98 per cent of the Earth’s leprechauns were in hibernation and the other two percent had had sex change operations. It was like one giant hand had clapped itself into a self-destructing paradox, imploding all consciousness, stealing all sensibility until the Great Brain of the Universe suffered neurological collapse.
The sky, formerly a most excellent canopy, was more like a cesspool of blue-coloured urine. Who indeed could appreciate the sky, when all that roamed the world were worms and cockroaches? Indeed, few could appreciate much, since there was little of substance, but rather a glut of nebulousness.
Klaus the Klaud looked down and began to cry, each raindrop seeding a technicolour pyrotechnic. The ground was a giant piece of Kleenex, absorbing the cloudy droplets like a gigantic piece of gauze soaks up gallons of sprinkler mist. Klaus could not appreciate the pathos, however and no one was there to witness the flowering of the Earth. Things were not as they seemed.
The Sun did then speak:
“Hey there,” said the Sun to the Klaud, “you and I are antithetical.”
The Sun had a piercing presence. If Klaus had had pants, he would have soiled them.
“Anti-thetical - that means that you is my biotche,” explained the Sun, who was influenced by hip-hop videos.
No match for the sun’s confrontational patois, Klaus began to disperse. But as he did he made a summary of natural existence:
“O Mr Sun, Mr Golden Sun, here is what I think of thee:
You shine a light for no one and no thing, you grow plants in a stagnating swamp... your Vitamin D propaganda is the biggest joke in three time zones and you can’t even rap like a killa-ghat shorty. You will be eclipsed, mark my words – whether in this century or the next...If any cloud comes by to take my place, and you resume your campaign of intimidation, why then the joke is on you. We will drizzle our innards, we will block you out, and if the moisture in me will ever return, I personally will steal your thunder and chillify those sunbathing cockroaches far below.”
The Sun look at the cloud and winked. “Ah-ight, cracka!” and he took off down below the horizon. The ocean rolled and the volcanoes snored. The sky let out a sigh. And leprechauns were as flamboyant as ever.