He sat down and penned a letter, quick and decisive. It was short. It was blunt. It asked one question and then explained why he needed to know the answer. He read it when he was done, read it four times. Just as he stood up, anger took over and he crumpled it instead of folded it. It was tossed, with force fueled by discontent, into the pile of smoldering ashes. As he crawled into bed, the letter caught on fire and slowly crumpled in on itself. The last words visible on the paper, before transforming into their own ash, were the following:
I just want to know why. Is it me?