In the margins, we scribble. Thoughts on ethics, like shadows, blur the lines between what's right and what's expedient. Can these shadows guide, or do they mislead, flickering like a candle in the wind? Contemplations spill into the margins, where the ink doesn't just write - it dances erratically, leaving traces of an incomplete picture.
The rain taps on windows, a rhythmic lullaby. Outside, life hums its own tune, unconcerned for the dilemmas that occupy those who ponder existence above the everyday. Enter the maze where questions multiply, each corner turning to face another inquiry, another doodle in the mind's notebook.
In these quiet moments, we cross roads. Choices appear like crossroads in an untrodden path. Ethics, a slippery companion, whispers in a voice only some can hear. What of those who wander without this whisper? Follow the winds, and perhaps you’ll understand the silent song of the unerring conscience.