When my friend Tavis died last month, a group of friends pitched in to clean out his apartment. One of the things we found, tossed in a jar with coins, guitar picks, dead batteries and the like, was a roll of film. I volunteered to take it in to get it processed, but it sat, strangely inertial, on my desk for the past month.

What the hell would be on there? Vacation shots? Pix of the last concert he went to? There was no way to even tell how old it was; could have been sitting there for years.

Finally summoned up the courage to take it in to the local CVS, and I must admit, I was actually nervous, breathless, at the thought of getting a final message, some weird communication.

"Sorry," said the guy behind the counter. "Blank film. Nothing on there."

Of course. No closure, no messages, just the "blind white light" and these empty, frameless strips of 35mm enigma.