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You find yourself with a small ethical problem when someone steals your shoes right off your feet.
Their ethical problem, but it's become yours, at least in part, by them having exercised their dodgy ethical values on your shoes. And feet.
So, in addition to having ethical problems, you also have no shoes (therefore probably throwing off anyone attempting to empathise with yourself, as there's no way they can really walk in your shoes (unless, of course, the person with the slightly more subjective ethical problem was attempting to do just that, in which case it's not their ethical problem at all, it's just their very literal empathising), yourself having none, at the moment).

Philosophy and Ethics Applied.

Routinely, events pass, somewhere out there, sometimes not so far out there, sometimes quite close.
Sometimes stopping to ask for directions, at which you always panic, and begin to doubt your own knowledge of the area, then finally, half out of irritation for this event having caused such thoughts of inadequacies in yourself, half realising you've always fancied yourself a story-teller, and that extended to directions and general spatial relations.
And events keep right on happening, still, regardless. Makes you think there's some sort of indomitable force behind it all, pushing on rather stubbornly whether or not you give it proper directions, quite stubborn, in fact. And I know that I, being a rather stubborn person, always had that moment of fear strike my heart, when encountering another stubborn person. No, not because I feared I might be out-stubborned (it's not happened all too often), but because I knew that I was going to be spending the next four years being stubborn to this person/event and wind up, four years down the road, forgetting where, exactly, it was I was going to in the first place, or being stubborn about, and it would all end rather anti-climactically when someone, having not been able to get by for the last four years, steals the shoes off my feet.
It happens.

disclaimer:
Regrettably (or not), we here at Sane Magazine have had our decision-making privileges revoked, largely due to incompetence and for our own safety, really.

However, our last decision, based on reader-feedback, was to kill last week's writer.
Which, apparently, is against EU regulations. So, as much cry for blood as there was, we were only allowed to slap him around a bit and give him a harsh instruction to write better.
But on to other things...

   IMAGINE THE FOLLOWING TEXT BLINKING

Early this morning, 15 October 2000, at long last, and after much hype, delay, hype, delay, and hype, Supertart has launched, alongside Michael Joyce's latest hyperfiction, The Sonatas of Saint Francis.

To celebrate this momentus (and sort of on time) event, the founder of both Sane Magazine and Supertart will be doing a world tour.
The first date we have nailed down for a public event is 5 November at midday for a moment or ninety in Cobble Hill Park in Brooklyn, New York, just around the corner from the Community Bookstore.
He'll be reading from his groundbreaking 1997 novel Time: a novel, signing autographs, and attempting to make balloon animals, if he remembers to bring balloons and magically learns how to make a balloon animal other than a sausage before that date.
For details and press contacts, mail pr@sanemagazine.com.