Close your eyes in a sealed room and the dark hands you a color: a soft charcoal that is not black, never black. Eigengrau. The eye, given nothing, manufactures a floor — rhodopsin misfiring, the retina's own static rendered as a field you can almost name. There is no off switch on seeing. Every sensor lies the same way: its blackest black is read noise dressed as void. You cannot photograph absence. The instrument always returns itself, faintly glowing, insisting you are never alone in the dark with nothing.