Christopher Walken and Vincent van Gogh are stuck in Cabin in a Snowstorm and forced to have a deep conversation.

Van Gogh shivers, "The yellow, it… it bleeds out of everything here, even the firelight, a sickly pallor, you see?"

Walken pauses, stirs the fire with a poker, "Yeah, that's the snow, Vincent. It's… persistent. Like a bad memory, you know? The kind that *clings*."

Van Gogh sighs, "Memory, yes. The cypress trees in the field of stars, a memory… but the swirling… the madness is here too, in this stark white."

Walken tilts his head, eyes narrowed, "Madness... is a choice, almost. A very *bad* choice. But a choice, nonetheless. Like deciding to paint with *both* ears."

Van Gogh stares intently, "But is it not beautiful, the madness? The raw, unfettered… *truth* of the feeling, the light exploding from the soul?"

Walken slowly nods, "Beauty… is where you *find* it. Sometimes, it's in the silence, the *empty* canvas before the storm. You know?"

Van Gogh pulls a scrap of paper, begins sketching with charcoal, "Empty? Never. It is always filled, a swirling vortex of possibilities, each line, a scream or a sigh."

Walken watches him, "Screams… they fade. Sighs… linger. But the *silence*... the silence is the *audience*. It *hears* everything."

Van Gogh stops sketching, his eyes reflecting the fire, "Then this silence… it will witness our shared misery, our shared… beauty, in this frozen hell."

Walken smiles, a strange, unsettling smile, "Exactly. And the snow, Vincent? The snow will *remember*. Always."