The one at the bottom who is supposed to just fucking walk but keeps threatening the stability of the whole thing by randomly blurting out nonsense.

In the dimly lit boudoir, she sat at her ornate bureau, perusing an array of gourmet hors d’oeuvres, contemplating which avant-garde piece from her repertoire to perform at the soirée, her silhouette an epitome of haute couture elegance. Meanwhile, her fiancé, a connoisseur of fine arts and a critic of the bourgeoisie’s penchant for laissez-faire economics, prepared a detailed critique on the nuances of ballet and the je ne sais quoi of modern art installations, embodying the esprit de corps of their eclectic salon.

Statements dreamed by the utterly deranged.