It was unlikely I would succeed as a silence thief. I could steal the silence, but I had no idea where to fence it. And at yard and garage sales, silence is typically not a hot item, even mixed in with left-handed hammers and vintage men’s magazines. Things soon devolved to my making only rare forays, gathering my cymbals and boat horns, heading out to late-night parks or silent prayer service or a blank lot between two vacant houses, to chase a carafe of unsuspecting silence. A basement stuffed with silence and no clients. No one seems to miss it.