Buried, surrendered. I found something not unlike silence.
Outsourced, over-encumbered. I gave it my name.
Something peculiar happened.
Silence permitted the following utterance.
So… you’re the oxygen thief.
Buried, rigid– torn asunder. I found something not-at-all like laughter.
On reflection, they sounded much the same. Perhaps– perhaps then it had been laughter.
Something remarkable had happened.
I’d named my silence, and found exuberance. It existed.
So… who’s laughing now.
Bemused. Besmirked. Soothed. I found something one might call smugness.
All in all, it matters not how I’m found.
Something strange will always have already happened.
How can I possibly fill it back up now.
Really, I quite like name. I suspect I’ll keep it.
the oxygen thief