Steal everything you have ever loved. Set it to another verse of borrowed phrases and humble pie. Somewhere in the spaces between the song-writer's ohm and the poet's demise, others will form your stolen loot, your dead-sea scrolls, into the multitude of inspiration that constitutes your Self.
The banks are running dry. All freedom is restrained to the ticking of a box and the punching of a clock. There is no shame in stealing a resonant thought. It is the way Revolution happens, an idea projected, then repeated, repeated, re-written and spoken in one thousand tongues. If your lover leaves you, it is nothing special.
Yet if a stranger's words steal your breath, stripped to a naked consciousness, you have every right to pilfer their mind, to bridge understanding, to share in a longing, to replicate a sentence in which truth was left unconfined.