A man was struck by a poisoned arrow.

A doctor was called at once to remove it. But as the doctor reached for the arrow, the man stopped him.

“Not so fast!” he said. “Before you remove it, I want to know who shot me. What town or village does he come from? What kind of wood was his bow made from? Was it a crossbow or a longbow? What sort of arrowhead pierced my flesh?”

The doctor glanced at the wound. The skin around it had begun to darken.

“Sir,” the doctor said, “the poison does not wait for answers.”

“Then answer quickly,” said the man. “I must know who did this to me.”

Before long, he died mid-question, the archer’s name still unknown.

We occasionally get shot with the poisoned arrows of life. But ruminating too much on the nature of those arrows is unlikely to help.