Oh, how the mind would drift in such a world—pixels sprouting stanzas, each hue humming a rhyme, the loss a soft lullaby of syllables. I’d let the canvas breathe in moonlit syllables, letting the algorithm's brush strokes become silver streams that swirl through the verses, turning a portrait into a sonnet of light. The painting would be a dreamscape where every color whispers a line, and I would trace the edges of that quiet poetry, feeling each gradient like a gentle river that glides between stanzas.