Everyone knew who The Talker was, but no one really knew him. His voice was soft and quiet and he said mostly pleasant things, so everyone liked The Talker. But no one really loved him.
He lived by himself and had no family, no friends to speak of, and yet, he received many invitations. He was something of an art house piece. He strolled through any gathering, talking to everyone and talking to no one. Newcomers found him curious, then angering, and then, for the most part, amusing. He laughed at himself right along with everyone else, which made us come close to loving him.
But, he woke talking and fell asleep talking and talked every moment in between. He talked while he ate, while he drank, while he peed. He even talked in his dreams.
Then, at the coffee shop, one ordinary morning, right in the middle of a sentence, just like that, he stopped. He had finally reached his quota. His eyes grew big as he tried to speak. But he simply could not do it. Everyone stared, not knowing what to do, while he turned pink, then purple, then pale. He died standing up, with his mouth open wide, and not a single word left in him.
And so it came to be that no one could stop talking about him, the talking man who was at long last, silent.
*Voice bubbles by Eleanora