"We are all thieves," she says. "Your breath is no more important than theirs—and even if it were, it’s not yours anyway; none of this is."
We are all thieves. Everything I’ve sought to attain—everything I’ve sought to accomplish: whether given, or stolen, I still parade it around as if it were all mine. And when someone threatens that, everything goes up in flames to protect my territory and all will burn. Even myself, if I have to.
But my sanity is not my own. My stability is not my own. My dignity… is not… my own. My glory will fade like the grass, and it will wither ever faster if I kindle this demand for mutuality—or, more ideally, respect—any longer.