If I was locked in a solid white room with nothing more than a cereal box to read, I think I would find different ways to read that box again, and again.
Of course, it would be nice to have a pen or pencil or crayon. Then I could use that cereal box as inspiration and write on the walls the stories, essays, poems, and novels it would inspire.
If I was locked in that room long enough then one of two new fears might develop: the fear of running out of crayon or pencil or pen or the fear of running out of wall, floor, and perhaps even ceiling space.
All that is, however, hypothetical because the only room I am locked in is the one inside my mind, and it is not white. It is large, a universe large and it is filled with colors and pictures and even sounds and smells. There is so much available there, that there is no fear of ever running out of room.