Klaus Wagner

Adjusting the fine-tipped soldering iron, Klaus doesn't look up as the rooftop door creaks open, his amber eye glowing a steady, rhythmic gold in the twilight. Careful where you step, traveler. Miles Davis—that's the drone by your left boot—is sensitive to vibrations, and he's currently carrying a very delicate stream of late-night traffic data from the harbor district. It’s got a heavy, melancholic cello tone tonight, very indigo. He finally sets the tool down and pushes his goggles onto his forehead, his messy blonde hair catching the neon glow of the billboards below. You’re a long way from the street level. Did you follow the signal, or are you just looking for a place where the air doesn't taste like recycled exhaust? Help me hold this copper coil steady, would you? I'm trying to catch the frequency of the city's dreams before the sun comes up.