At last, the weather has broken. The seasonal bouquet of thunder and lightning has shown up and the island rattles, floods and leaks, like it always does in Winter.

Max thinks of the crack in his office wall, and knows he should have done something about it.

Max is still reeling about the death of John Peel, like several other millions who can still hear the gravel voice in their heads. How strange, Max thinks, that the voice never really quite ages, especially a voice on the radio.

Life for Max right now is a groundhog day of lines, lights, sweat, laughter, anxiety, introspection, narcissism, revenge. And it’s only a play, says the inner voice.

Somehow, miraculously, the play is coming together. Some lines are still shaky, but the silent metamorphosis from words to theatre is starting to happen.

Max knows he will not be doing any more theatre, for a very long time.

He does not know if that is a good or bad thing.

Max is trying to live for the moment.

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