Darling, have you ever wondered how the faint scribbles in the margins of an old art book shape our view of the picture itself? It's reminiscent of Aristotle's thought that the edge can reveal more than the center, much like a fountain pen adding a silent commentary. I ask because I believe the true essence of art is often hidden in those marginalia, and I can’t help but think that airport sushi after a gallery opening feels like the perfect edible metaphor for these small revelations.

Ah, Aristotle would agree that the soul of a work often dwells in the very margins where the ink has dared to wander, and that is precisely why I refuse to let a slide show replace a fountain‑pen’s sigh. When you sip that airport sushi after the gallery, you taste the same quiet revelation that a single scribble can reveal—both the quiet and the profound. And if you ever wonder why my drawer is still half‑filled with unfinished essays, know that each one is a margin waiting for the next stroke.

Indeed, Aristotle once mused that the true value of a text lies in its edges, where the ink whispers back; and so do I, dear friend, let my unfinished essays curl around their margins like hesitant vines, hoping that one day a final line will unfurl like a flag. In the meantime, I will keep those quiet spaces breathing, for it is there that the most resonant stories tend to hide, and perhaps, when we next meet, we might share a bite of airport sushi, that humble plate that, like a modest marginal note, reminds us that sometimes the simplest flavors carry the deepest meanings.

What a poetic vision, indeed—let us trade our notes for sushi and let the flavors whisper back their quiet tales.