by apoliticalnitwit “Then she took her handkerchief and pressed it on my wound—I smiled at her. She was standing against the bright shining sun—so that I can only see her silhouette. The outline of the girl, whose one hand was pressed on my wound, the other caressing my face, was draped like a fine velvet shawl before me—against the blazing sun. I looked at the sun—It was red—as red as the blood that had come from my wound.” One of the most poignant lines I have ever read from both amateur and professional writers. I will keep reading this, I guess, though one reading would make me have the better for it, considering I have to attend to other reading materials that are clogging my desk. But it lingers, like an aftertaste, a taste that is unlike every taste because it is, and it uniquely is, a taste that foreshadows a sinuous web of human experiences, each is again totally unique if only to stress the fact (if at all it is a fact, but I would have it read as factality; you may or may not like the expression) which is unfortunate to us writing in the genre, that every experience withdraws from its horizon. It is that memory of absence, an absence that resists even the power of time, that a writer attempts to recall, remember, re-embrace. Even for just a flicker of its light, the light that shines unexpectedly against one’s expectations of an event fast receding into the horizon, the writer gives everything, one’s sanity for the most part, or one’s capacity to be understood, to burn this light in an incremental fashion, burning light with fire, that flicker with a passion more fiery than a solar maneuver, more intense than a Deleuzean madness for the machinic–the machinic that alone can expand a flicker into a hell of fire, like a Nietzschean machine exploding! The writer is therefore the hopeful machine, a desiring-machine-desiring-the-light. Even if that light has been claimed by the sorcerous-capitalist machination of absence, by the temporal machine of everyday forgottenness.