I loved it. This is a sex and violence story told more in dream and nightmare than in daytime reality state and the language has the beautiful and horrifying surreal sensory quality of the dream. No action is described with a conventional verb. No event takes place within a conventional time frame. The results are challenging, aggravating, and hypnotically resonant.
Images clash and explode like reflections in kaleidoscopic insect eyes.
The story itself blooms in language that resembles those little monster pills that expand in water. In truth, language may be the real protagonist here. One is reminded of Heidigger's statement that prose is dead poetry. Nothing dead here. If novels in general are mirrors of the world, Ron Dakron has created a sort of broken-mirror mosaic, reflecting and interposing times and places, something like a cubist, pointillist collage, beaten out to the rhythm of moody, fragmented Seattle rain . . .