Philosophy asks questions about existence because the philosopher finds in such questions, in the Question itself, and in ancient existence the only salve for the wound of love.
He asks the question and the door opens.
He lets the words form on his mouth.
He himself will smear them all over himself.
Of his own anointing he becomes the answer.
The answer is long.
It is difficult. It is too much to speak.
The eternal night has not been deep enough.
I am the night.
The drilling goes on.
The few lights I have glare.
Existence and the Question insist,
and I still continue with my answer.
The oil and the sheen of the machine of love.
The two-in-one. There is no answer.
All the numbers are.
Existence has gone deep.
The answers and the questions about the existence of numbers, and relations, and universals, and individual things, about the Tie and the First and the Second and all the things that never were and you never were and screaming and unheard cries in the night, all so close to God, and there you are so calmly sitting with that stuff all over your face and the door just closed! Which side are you oh my God on.