Johnny's playroom is a bunker filled with sand

He has a wife, they say. He has morals and scruples, they say. He's trying his best and he is doing what he should do. So they say.

But Mythra has nothing. No wife, no girlfriend, no brother because she doesn't want Malos or Milton or Minoth, no one to take care of and no one who actually - ACTUALLY - wants to take care of her.

What can he teach her? What can he give her?

And why won't he even do it, Father damn it?

Father. Tch. Stupid. So stupid.

("I woke you up, I make sure you get enough to eat!")

As if. As if that's what counts. You didn't raise me. You just watched me rise, and fall, and rise, and trip and fall again.

And I watched the way your mouth softens when you look at Milton, or the sunrise over the Titan's neck, or people with children in marketplaces.

(.And me)

(...)

(.Not me)

I thought I should feel something. So I did.

I can do anything I choose to do. You certainly can't stop me.

I'll learn what I like, even if you won't teach it to me. I have to.

Love. Four letters. Why not for me?

Because that's the trouble. If Mythra doesn't try to emulate this, she doesn't know how to feel anything at all.