The Curvature Of OhMore Like This
Tod's a mute, it doesn't matter why. It doesn't matter why, but Tod's a mute. He sometimes wants the world to spin so fast that he's on the other side and he's singing, he's singing so loud that the crows in the rooftops stop their noise because there isn't any point because no-one's listening, because they're all listening to Tod. God stops to hear Tod sing. But Tod can't sing, not at the rate this world spins. He can't sing.
Tod starts to paint. Starts in his room at the sound of the door, but the sound's only so loud because it never comes from his mouth the way we sometimes surprise ourselves with words we never planned. Starts to paint with his right hand and learns to spoon chicken noodles into his mouth with his left, and Tod paints around a plate and stares at the daubed red sun that's hollow and always mouthing Oh.
When the couple across the street walk out of their front door a few mornings later they're on their way to work and on their car (it is red) is written: Go To Slee