The white screen spreads across the wall. There is no white screen. A figment, a wishful thought of a would be filmmmaker. Instead, a picture spreads across the wall. A guitar. The strings play themselves. There is no one playing them.
There is no room, there is no picture, there is no guitar. There is just barely a film maker. He stands still as if trying to make himself disappear as well. The guitarist, sans guitar, sits nearby as well. There is nothing.
The film maker gestures towards a wall. The guitarist lifts his heavy head. Some figure casts a shadow upon the wall.

Just look. The film maker stares in amusement at the shadow. He could never be a film maker. Look what I've done. The guitarist watches his film maker. Watches how his glasses are fogged and how he stares so contently at nothing.
There's nothing there.
The film maker shifts his gaze downward. The guitarist watches his crestfallen friend. There is nothing to do but watch. The film maker turns to the guitarist. He doesn't watch him. He films him. He is a film maker after all. His camera has shattered into pieces, left to lay upon the bedroom floor. There is no camera. The gadgetry belonging to the camera is spread around. Just like the film maker.
There is nothing. Only this. There is no this. Just the film maker, the guitarist, and a shadow cast upon the wall. All else has fallen, broken, shattered apart.
Look what I've done. The film maker repeats and looks pointedly at the wall. He wants to create something. A shadow. All that belongs to him.
The guitarist shakes his head. There is nothing there. The guitarist stares at the empty space. Just a shadow there.
There is nothing there.
Yes there is. Look. Look at the shadow.
That's nothing, Mark. Nothing. The film maker turns to the guitarist. How could he leave him alone in a world so cold? He opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever came out. Just strings of meanlingless words put together like a macaroni necklace. They're there so people don't forget his existence. Glue the macaroni on a paper. String it on a string.
Struck, the film maker stands and traces the shadow with a finger. His finger leaves no mark. Just like the film maker. He films this scene with his camera that isn't there. But it's all there. It's just the film maker that's missing some key components.
Stop, Mark. There's nothing there. The film maker continues, ignoring his companion's request. This is something, he's created something out of nothing. Nothing out of something. Nothing out of nothing.
What I've done... He repeats to himself until the words have fallen apart, they have become to sound foreign on his tongue. Taking a step back, he admires his work. The guitarist watches. Forever watching.
The film maker exclaims one last time, thrusting his finger towards his life's work. Nothing. He collapses to his knees, laughing to himself. The lens of the camera had been flung out the window and lay shattered on the pavement. Like the film maker.
The guitarist's eyes open wide. There was, is, never will be anything there. His companion has too left him alone. The guitarist slips down next to the film maker. He takes his hand, a guiding hand and points it to the wall.
There's nothing there. You hear me? NOTHING. He speaks this into his ear, tattooing it upon his brain. Shatter, the sound of shattering glass. The film maker's face freezes. An image, an era fades away. He turns to the guitarist and watches his eyes.
Then I've done something.