The next morning the room was an appalling mess: every object in it had been moved from its place. There were empty cups and glasses everywhere and above it all, the chickens roamed, agitated and making a racket.
‘It’s not even Tuesday,’ was the first thought that popped in Gwen’s head, and she examined it with detachment, surprised at how different one’s habitual thought patterns became to fit the context.
That connecting Tuesdays with chickens was not in the range of thought processes sane people accepted proved to her the psychological normal was not a matter of clear mental standards, but a majority rule: you're normal if most of the people think like you.
“Who ate all the bread?” a voice, which she recognized belonged to No. 8, boomed over the chaos.
“Sorry,” No. 3 sheepishly confessed. “That tea can build quite an appetite.”
‘What happens if whatever you intend to convey is so foreign to your fellow humans nobody resonates with it? Do you not say it, then? And if you do, does it have any more meaning than a nonsensical poem?’
Tenth Scene