The darkness fades into a grayness as the lights become dim. The man is sitting in the front row looking at the pale canvas screen before him. 24 frames per second a new painting made with light and life so much concentrated endeavor. He gets up from his chair and approaches the screen. It has no response in this dormant state it is the most neutral thing possible. He touches the rough fabric it is strong and durable taught like a sail to travel the minds of escape.
The city is cold at this point an honest cold that clears the sky of all the smog and lets the lights shine stars of industry piercing the sky and reflecting back onto the universe with neon multicolored parody of those same events that made it all.
At home he notices that his finger is white where he touched the screen like a chalky film he rubs his finger but it does not come off, it spreads. He goes to the bathroom and washes his hand but nothing happens he holds his hand to the light by now his entire palm is white it is like a progressive bleaching of his skin. The appendage feels cold and dull.
He can see something in his palm a reflection a projection.
This is probably 5 years old other half is over at somewhat less futile a variation on a common theme.