Eburnean.

More short to mid length stories written without coherency in mind. I swear this short running commentary in the beginning will should cease. Not even really a story, just a few sentences combined to make up stuff.
Here we go-

The entire room was covered in nothing but the entirety of the light spectrum.

Pale linen and sheets. A washed out painting framed within a border of darker white, almost gray. A lighter splash of white graced the ceiling, creating the illusion of space being larger than it actually was. 

A white wooden bookcase, or plastic? Because it is the usual norm for bookcases to be made of wood. Besides, what else could it be? Anyway, the plastic/wood case was laden with books. And of course, all of the books are white, you've been paying attention to the story haven't you?

A toppled jug of milk laid on the counter, it's content almost the exact hue as the surface it is on. The liquid remains perfectly stationary, still that it seems and feels like solid - static and glued in place. The only reason why it's milk is because it's only natural to call a white liquid milk.

The lamp, emitting white light, hung from the ceiling as if it was oscillating and then just abruptly stops at the height of its motion, frozen in time and space. A low hum drones on in the background, driving through the void-like atmosphere of the room.

Everything was still. Even the tiniest of particles suspended mid-motion as if the entire notion of time itself has stopped. The most fundamental law of the universe malfunctioning at the boundaries of this very small white room. Right in the middle of all this torpid chaos, stood a person, clothed in black.

God will know why because I really have no idea why.

End.