'Nonexistence' represents the paradox at the pinnacle of the human mind, of evolved intelligence: the ability to conceive of something that is not real and does not exist. The word itself is a tribute to imagination. 

Brittle black fingers are turning her contorted ink-stained pages as she is read. Against this curse of war we have only ourselves to offer, the ceaseless celebration of each other's living bodies, the musky anthem that is life. And this cannot be accomplished without her. She is, as I have said, the catalyst -- she brings these fragile seeds to germination within herself, and it appears that she must in the process surrender her identity, in exchange for one of my own devising. Making and marring, mending and murmuring. No facile phrases, no enthusiastic lusts can truly delineate her. She is not a creature of symbols. She may be made one, given time, but it will not be of her own doing or volition. She has been here before, pale or dark, smiling or unsmiling. She has both refused and accepted before. And will again. I remember at least this much. Even after all these years, after so much of importance has dissolved within me...... - "The War of Nonexistent Women"