![]() ![]() That he was.alive.Ī thrum of relief overrode numb disbelief. That this time it was really, really Max. She began to believe he was there, as she still was. She even began to recall Max being as normal a part of this interior decor as she was. She heard the eternal, prosaic hum of the air conditioner, and began to recognize again the bland familiarity of her domestic terrain. At the same instant, she became even more alert to her hatred of ever being seen at such a childish disadvantage.Īnd then, despite the ludicrous shock of Max's reappearance, and his appearance, reality shattered her Technicolor daze like a fist smashing a stained-glass window. She became aware of her bare feet planted on the fuzzy comfort of her fake goat-hair rug. The only buttressing piece of clothing holding Temple together at the moment was the soft sash of her martial arts gi, and it was no excuse for suffering an attack of the vapors. Well-corseted Victorian ladies, she guessed, would have swooned by now. She sensed her own space, time and particular place in such sharp but distant clarity that it too had become a dislocated Dali landscape, seen but not felt. She was viewing not Max Kinsella, but Max Headroom, some berserk computer-image accident and traveling freak show. Height like the Eiffel Tower: familiar but looming larger than memory. Oil-slick rainbow sunshades.dark, virtual-reality lenses locking the wearer into an intimated vast but hidden world. Nor could her mind assemble several clear but alien impressions into a recognizable image.neon-storm, carnival-midway Hawaiian shirt. Max Kinsella looked like a surreal figure lost in a garishly vacant Dali landscape.
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