At heart, this world is but a ward of an asylum, where each and everyone shouts, claims, sustains his madness. One utters: “Love me and be my slave!” the other one repeats with goggled eyes: “Gi’me money! Gi’me money!” another one struggles in chains tied to the hall’s pillar: “women… women!...”. And so on, each one takes his stomach out, like a sepia, and invokes passionately, for himself (hoping in the magic of the moment), the formula of his favorite nourishment. This happens at the lower levels, because everything is leveled, and here also. The ones living higher don’t cry out loud; they just whisper, with their eyes half-opened, while their looks glide smoothly over the surroundings.
On the highest floor live those talking normally – no shouting, no whispering – those watching normally – no goggled eyes, nor half-opened, with curious looks. They walk freely, wearing clothes under their smocks and talking to each other: “Good moorning, doctor! How are you today? Oh, me - just fine!... I’m glad, I’m glad, but, you know, I happen to have an interesting case and I could use a little piece of advice… Yes? Oh, thank you! You’re so nice! ”
What floor are you on?
Just raise your head and take a glance…