You are like a frigate bird swooping down upon the boobies and robbing them of the fish they have caught.

You are one with a crowd of men who have made what they call a government, who are masters of all the other men, and who eat the food the other men get and would like to eat themselves.

You wear the warm clothes.

They made the clothes, but they shiver in rags and ask you, the lawyer, or business agent who handles your money, for a job." "But that is beside the matter," I cried.
"Not at all." He was speaking rapidly now, and his eyes were flashing.
"It is piggishness, and it is life.

Of what use or sense is an immortality of piggishness?
What is the end?
What is it all about?
You have made no food.