Paris, the walls too thin, the neighbours too close. You hear everything — the lovers, the grumblers, those who cry at 3am for no apparent reason.

COLOC is a mental orgy seen from inside BZ’s head — you look literally behind his eyes, two large clear closed discs at the centre of the hive, motionless while everything swarms around. The hive becomes a building in cross-section: each cell is a room, each room a miniature scene — someone in bed, someone at their desk, someone sleeping alone in the dark. Everyone in the same space, nobody really together.

Flows of orange and yellow flame cross the structure diagonally, like a warmth that circulates from one cell to another without ever going out — the hum of the city that never really stops.