"Mmm, you are a creature of faith. You live on faith and belief; oh, you may like to think you live on that." Jack motioned to what some called cancer or death sticks. "But, you know you don't. You probably don't even need the usual physical requirements: food, sleep, sex. You just like them; you believe, which is amusing, that you can be a good ole cowpoke - I picked that phrase up somewhere, still not sure where."
Jack settled back beside the cowboy, legs crossing at the knee - the more mannish style rather than female, not that they were really all that different. His hands clasped on his slightly lifted knee. It was if they were having a regular conversation.
"You will one day have to face that you need to be believed in; actually, you probably are to some degree. Some who believe in you as a person, and then a few who believe in what you really are. Because, when they stop believing, there is nothing in existence, and nothing you can make, that will fill you. Nothing that will make you whole, and then you'll fade away." The crone understood this side of belief a great deal better than some might think. "It sounds peaceful, but it won't be. It'll be painful, and hard, and who knows what you'll do to break that."
Once more Jack turned ever so slightly on the bench to look at the cowboy. "But, we're not here to talk about you. You're here to tell me knock it off or you'll pound me. Something as ridiculously hokey as that, I'm sure. Well, don't you worry your pretty little head. I don't believe a storm like that is in the future. Though...you could better those chances if you meddled a little in my affairs."