The soldier keeps repeating myself. Disjoined from the world of values whose extension he is, he appears in blank erotic haze. Like an emanation, he emerges in a fault running thru militarized common sense extension of my body which he so spectacularly realizes. His appearance and reappearance won’t quit, like a skip or a tic symptomatic spasm I can finally feel a figure I am only able to contemplate now as if for the first time and whose seeming centrality to my book is a consequence of this slow accretion of sensation, not its reason. In other words, the soldier is a phantom synthesis artifice, fake a cause summoned by its own effects. Check out how I fuse my attention to his form this fault in judgment as if his form had been present from the work’s inception. But the soldier is not a concept, certainly not an original one, tho he may be an allegory mirror of ideology, from which there’s no remove a blank that both arouses and frustrates my longing for a livable world, at once portal and obstruction.