Some questions haven't been answered yet. May be the answers haven't been knit in to the starry night itself. Paradoxical enough that how is it possible that a question exists but its answer doesn't? Life has become such a question, should I believe in the right answer? Or just an answer at all? Who amongst us muggles has cracked the code to the existence of me, of you, for that matter, any of us? Why the suffering? Why me? Why us? We ran so hard on the behest of our hearts that we forgot where our feet were.