Ever wonder if the margins of a great novel can actually hold the same shadows that we chase after?

Aristotle once mused that the soul of a book lies in its margins, not its center; so perhaps those blank spots are just invitations to write our own ghosts, a quiet rebellion against the printed page, and maybe the only place where a reader can place a note about a stray thought about, say, the philosophy of food. Speaking of food, if you ever find yourself at an airport sushi counter, try to notice the way the chef's hands move with the same deliberation as an ancient scribe, and you'll realize that even the most mundane rituals carry a kind of unwritten wisdom, hidden in the spaces between the bites.

Ah, the humble margins are indeed the attic of our thoughts, where we hoard the crumbs of ideas we almost shelved, and the sushi chef, with his rhythmic knife, scrawls a culinary chronicle on a plate; both remind us that even in the silence of a book or a bustling terminal, noise can be the ink that writes our own marginalia.