A Fragment

I just found this in a notebook. Judging by the tone of the piece, I'd probably been re-reading The Logogryph at roughly the same time as I wrote this. I think I was going to do something with it once, but I forget what. Until I remember, then, here seems to be as good a place for it as any:

He'd been stealing them for years now: phrases and words squirrelled away in the nooks and crannies of his downtown apartment. Although he'd at first been able to tuck them safely into his sock drawer, under his mattress, sometimes behind the china cabinet. Eventually, though, he had too many, and was forced to stack them precariously in the closet and pray that they wouldn't fall out over the floor when he reached in, cracking the door ever so slightly to grab a jacket.

Indeed, his kleptomania had gotten the better of him. When he'd started taking other peoples' words and phrases, he'd stuck to strange ones that he was certain no one would miss. Backpfeifengesicht was the first one--who could resist stealing such a perfect word, coveting it in the middle of the night, away from prying eyes. This didn't last long, though, before he grew bolder and started stealing more obvious words. No one commented when "that's neither here nor there" was spirited from the public lexicon, and that mad him grow bolder still. Eventually he found himself sitting attentively in his cubicle, hands anxiously grasping the arms of his office chair while he waited with bated breath for his coworkers to say something--anything--that caught his attention.

They had to catch him eventually. There was no way he could get away with it for long. People everywhere found themselves at a loss for words.