The Road Beneath My Feet

Kevin McConnell, author of the story of style analysis, told that he had mainly considered "writing my way", which was to develop a consistent style throughout the story. I think he did this consistent style in several different ways. One way the author attempts to achieve this goal is that he uses his rhetorical method. If not accurate, the remarks of many authors are very similar. For example, the author repeatedly said, "Dust rises and kills me." This metaphor is iterative, I think that this is a way to capture the consistent style I'm looking for.

Next time I was in front of Turner, I was signing "his path under the feet" - his memoir - to his book. With the signing of this February, I asked Frank to write the lyrics that bothered me for the past two months. It is obvious that it will last forever on me.

It can be said that nothing has changed, even at night or on a dark night. The wet road of my feet is full of rock and muddy holes like the days that came out ten years ago. The same poor barley crop may still be a crow. The same old tree. The same low cloud poured water on muddy lands. As I entered the last curve, I could hardly see the old Trent huts revealed. This has changed. Not much, but as the old man Trent died long ago, his rotten cottage is more distorted than before. There are few roofs. Someone put it and then surely fall on the children playing inside.

On the ground, my legs are greasy. The cool air from the recent rain gently blows into my face. At the boundary of the road, trees gently quietly shake while squeezing. Raindrops pouring down tall pine trees are shining even in the last sun. I can not see it far away between them, but I think the tree has been going on in the dark for a long time. It smells like laundry, sweets, soapy, moldy and wet. It still looks very beautiful. This place is very busy and check-in counters are very good. I imagined that thousands of hands slid over it and irritated and beat the surface. A golden cat, a bewitching sitting upright, snores quietly next to a small bronze bell. It's dotted with nicknames; this place looks very live. I hit the bell. As the soft edge of the room swallowed the ringtone, I noticed how quiet this place is. I stared at the counter surprisingly and noticed my legs moving under me