Tel Aviv, October 2014, I am sitting in my Grandpa’s Workroom and watching a drama TV series. the main character, a woman, lay in an unmade bed and wept, tearing her soul to the pillow. My eyes turned heavy, I kept them open so I won’t start crying. I wanted this moment to last, to surround me in 360 degrees, to leave a mark on my body. The hysterical women’s behavioral patterns are not new to me, they’re everywhere, I was raised and defined by them. My tears are made from the millions of pixels of women crossing my TV screen. When reëncountering those scenes during the years, I was facing my own image, from pixels I came and to pixels I’m destined to return. Crying, the raw pain of reality, the one that cannot be tamed and put down in words, became disciplined. We have lost our ability to create our own unique and private pain and gave in to the synthetic experience of madness.