A perspicacious objection, that is both uncalled and rather odd. Of the state that is being questioned, or rather interrogated thoroughly, as if it is being butchered from its own universe. Needed to be truly inferred, sometimes when a writing, or any other manifested inspiration being crafted, arranged, and displayed, it is meant to stay that way. It really is, the way it is. Questions would create decadence, wrecking havoc towards the meaning. There are reasons why it does not say more nor less, also why some things are left indirectly sharp or hurtfully soft. Because the writing, the story and the meaning, are built inside a world of its own, one that has its own rule, its own ferocity and its own beauty. The world that might be too painful for the reader, too shallow or too vague, yet still a world supposed to be left unquestioned.