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Looking at the Armando thing and realising that somewhere along the line, you failed to close your metaphor or even attach it to the body of the narrative. Just going from desert dust to piss and turps to burning down a brothel in the desert. And non sequitur may be a stylistic tick of yours, but it really doesn't work.. since you never
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One paragraph of [mercifully cut] ugh:-
The boots were perfectly balanced, just like everything the Bookman touched, only there was guilty warmth to them and their butter soft leather. Like taking a leak in a bath, for that one moment relaxation and warmth almost radiating from the heart. Then you shower desperately, rubbing yourself raw with Ivory soap, half-dressed half-dry you wrestle with a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles before splashing yourself with turpentine cologne.
Uh, yeah, it's a bit like the pissing bit of Corelli (I never finished, de Bernieres south American stuff is far superior as far as I'm concerned) and well - I did ask what you clean the bath with - and it's all a bit screwed up at this point with homophones and the messed up metaphor that jumped from numbers to burning people without actually mentioning the connection - viz a map/flyer for said underground sex party in the desert
everybody needs an underground sex party in the desert.
*stupid honking grin*
and now - food! steak even! should be back shortly! isH!
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