The artist sets up her paints under the fading sun and raises her brush, suddenly motionless, waiting for the dusk to deliver her its earth-bidden passion. Her tiny figure waits, palette balanced on an upturned palm and its tilted wrist, as she begins to absorb the strengthened night's debilitating cold. But the world is blank tonight, and what artist can paint from one blank canvas onto another?
Desperate, she observes the sky with a keen eye - is that a streak of blue there, embraced by the sun's soft glow? One too eager brush reveals the difficulty of replicating this; critically, she assesses her single lilac line and denounces it for its too-avid romanticism. There's no beauty in making the understated garish, only vulgarity and enthused vanity.
Pausing, hand poised in a regretful caress over her irretrievable error, she feels her face begin to flush bright red, and in the spur of the moment she streaks a hellish trail of red paint across the canvas like some brutish carcass. Gleeful in her profound lack of 'refinement', she traces that line over and over again, mixing in all shades of yellow, orange, scarlett. Eventually, somewhat shocked, she finds herself sitting back on her chair, eyes only half open. She exhales, watching the mist, that battle between her warmth and the earth's violent cold make drifting patterns, a waltz in the air.
As the mist clears, she takes another resentful scowl at the sky, cursing her own ineptitude, only to find her sleep-yearning gaze attracted to a tiny blemish in the immaculate pastel blue above. Almost obscured in some deep corner of the heavens lies a streak, one pure, beautiful streak of paradise: an orange ray, the first symbol of the sun's nightly massacre. Pure sunlight but more, an explosion across the sky, the earth's swan dance as light surrenders to night. To her, it seems like the beginning and end of all things brought back to humanity, some god-given tale of foreboding - but no, this bursting light, this awakening of the sun it seems, to her, is pure sin.
She dares to peek again at her own canvas, the product of her primitive paroxysm, mirrored by nature's mysterious convictions. Vitalised by its concentrated madness, possessed somewhat by it herself, she grabs her brush once again and repeats her glorious profanity over and over again: true art, such as she's never made before, grows and flourishes before her eyes.
Above her, the universe fractures into flames, into day's decay, and sun-streaked life wreaks havoc across the horizon.