Form. I find it unknowable,...
It is what provides my knowing.
Perhaps it is in that that it is unable to be known.
Hehehehe
That that
However,
Said logic is, in essence, formatic and therefore is but form,
Hence its vague metaphysicality.
Form, that is.
It is a hole which one could dig to find a bottom,
Simply to discover they are earthen fooled,
On dirtless ground and spades bound.
No-thing.
The lack of “things”.
That, I know is to be the only ( ).
Due to my form,
I apologetically indulge in the indulgence of the feeling,
Greedy feeling that keeps my graphite sliding and pencil inscribing.
There is, out there, logic that is difficult, nion impossible to counter.
Why must one agree with that statement, or care?
( )
Counselor, philosopher?
Hello?
Guru, who denies my inquisition?
I seek affirmation,
The licking of my feet to provide with my suffering a name,
So that it can wait patiently for beck and call.
Let my ouches be assorted in macarons.
Truth be told,
Purchase from my bakery,
And let a chance of truth cast seething nodes of sweetness into nothingness.
The ones of this mind,
Of intangibility,
Holes of which have nothing to find spatial deficit.
One second,
I'll be back-
Just going to step through this glowing door and…
You know,
Banter with the nearest topologist
You know,
Because of the hole thing

Seriously,
If all philosophers had access to a gym and a lover,
Existentialism would never have escaped the womb