60 x 73 cm acrylic, oil, pencil, no-dry-washable(!!) markers

I live under the roof of a very loud and very old apartment building. And below my fake-tile flooring lives the couple I have dubbed "the screamers."

excerpt from my top secret book named Book:

"...and the screamers. The gray, the hating I can't understand and the quiet, when the quiet comes, I explode inside; in white in gray and then... colors, an immune system of colors let loose in this new silence, searching for the screams and shouts that burn me up, that kept me so still, that often woke me... and I sink into my bed, aching toward the sound, the lack of sound, ears open, eyes closed...
...
And so when you destroy a person from the inside, do they turn gray and black and white under their skin? Or is it their eyes that change a shade darker, or maybe their memories that turn black and white (or disappear completely)? Is all that color simply lost, the outside a tease for an inside that has already faded to dust and ashes?..."

et voilà, "the screamers."