What occurs when a question is unleashed into the world? What propels it? What does it seek? Does the question, or more precisely, the act of questioning begin with the presumption that there is an answer, that there must be an answer? Must we question in order for a reply? Where does it look, the question, when it rears its earnest countenance? Does it stare into the night, pointlessly, and what does it see in the darkness?
Does it not begin in darkness, in nothingness, or must it come from some deep restlessness for it to emerge as itself, as a knife in the silent night? Does it seek light? Can it even be sure if what it receives is true? If so, is it a suicide, the act of questioning? If questions do not necessarily require an answer, then, must we remain silent, in the growing abyss of one