she was uncharacteristically silent about her work, but i stood by for a possible "how many of these things are there?" scenario, and the kitchen clock ticked its politely subdued tick while the minutes marched past.
it had been another quarter of an hour before she lifted her head, and wiped her forehead wearily. she looked down at her work, and then asked blankly,
"why did i chop these?"
and, as hard as it was for me to admit, i could not answer her.
as per my directive as a tiny observer, however, i had to collapse the waveform of possibility with a response: perhaps you've just gone nuts.