  When he does speak, he speaks of things that are no longer there. He remembers dreams of conversations that he had with imaginary friends. He whispers, so quietly that you have to hold your ear right next to his mouth to catch even the merest word. People that think they know him think he never says anything at all. The silent watcher they call him. Some shun him, afraid that he's listening to them breathing.
That he can hear their thoughts. He can't do this. But he does observe them, as they walk past. Watching them perform their rituals of greeting and flirting. Some guarding their words, holding hands in front of their mouths to protect the conversations from his ears. As if he even cares what those ones have to say.
The people that talk openly and freely are the characters that interest him. He likes to listen to their chatter. Sometimes he even sketches them in his book. Their faces and body movements. He even draws speech bubbles for fragments of their conversations. The best time of all is when he only hears a single sentence or phrase from the people passing by.
Then he can make up a whole story based on that one snippet. That tiny fragment explodes in his mind. New characters form, mouthing the strangest dreams. These scare him as well. When he flicks back into his book, he can't remember which of the words were real and which he made up. Maybe all he was doing was copying down everything.
Making nothing new at all. Blindly composing words that have already been used. Drawings of grotesque faces that he doesn't recognise. Malformed bodies writhing on the white page, that should be marked return to sender. Yet when he captures them in pen and ink, they seem so real, holding the moment as he sees it. Perhaps someone is wiping the pages clean, and putting these fantastical creatures there.
Or maybe once captured, the pressing between the pages of his book distorts their form. Either way, he tries not to flip backwards. Keeps the pages closed tight. Opens to a new fresh sheet each day. Hides the demons away. So he sits.
Nib poised. Listening. Observing. Watching as people close themselves as they approach, watch them ignore him. Nod to the laughs, smile to the stares. Whispering cold dreams and hot nightmares.
Ready to sketch you into his book and hold you there. 
