If you asked a pastel artist to write

She would stood in front of her sanded paper like she used to like elephant wondering about the earth’s core liquid metal yellow orange or red maybe red yes red she picked a red pastel stick and wrote RED about hammer pinata swollen from the air it breathed through its pores she add color to the air with the color of ash yes that looks good swallowed by ravenous alarm clock ticking ticking they ran with shoes never stops pigment filled up millions of valleys of the elephant until paper screamed no more enough no room for you here you have to stop here

Sigh

There goes first draft, or first painting.

How can we compare a painting with a piece of writing?

Is a painting like a last chapter of a novel?

She would stood in front of her sanded paper like she used to like sky before tornado letters scattered here and there by chance who would’ve thought 26 letters in English alphabet be so meaning less or meaning more.

No, forget it