Form (n.) can exist without the object, however the object cannot exist without the form.
Form (n.) is each itself one, but because it shows up everywhere mingled with actions, bodies and other forms, each appears to be many.
A Form (n.) may be like the day: one and the same in many places at once, yet continuous with itself.
A Form (n.) is what the carpenter looks to when his shuttle breaks mid-making: never to the broken one, but to what a shuttle itself is.
A Form (n.) raises the hardest question of all: how can one changeless unity be found whole in many changing things at once without being torn from itself?
Form (n.) imposed on music composed in an undisciplined style always improves it immensely, even if it becomes less immediately attractive.
Form (n.) never comes to be or perishes, receives nothing into itself and enters nothing else; invisible, it is studied by understanding alone.
Form (n.) is not one or two examples of a thing but the one thing that makes all the examples what they are — a model you can hold up against any case.
Form (n.) can only be one: if a god made two beds in nature, a third would appear whose form they both shared, and that would be the real bed.