A picture and a question:

There's a hole.
It is dark.

But this darkness is not simply dark, as night usually is. Nor is it dark like a crack in a leather sofa, nor even as dark as outer space can appear to us in its farthest voids.

No.

In contrast, imagine the blackest black, completely undifferentiated, smooth and empty.
The darkness of this hole now appears deeper.

It was as if this blackest black, if it existed, had been quite obviously stripped of all saturation and brightness that had never before been attributed to any other black.
This one therefore remains in an indeterminate negativity, as if it had become indebted to the world around it, as if its color were not zero but rather infinitely smaller.

You fear, precisely because of this existential credit, that this darkness must suck in, like a vacuum must suck in when it is enveloped by density.
You fear that it will tear at all earthly light at once, destroying everything that still shines.

However, it does this seemingly without growing at all. For the hole swallows you without consuming you; it pulls at you without any discernible movement of its own.

This hole, as described, is stuck to your ceiling, looking down at you, while you – lying on your back – stare into it incessantly.

Now tell me:
What is in this hole?