Gemotions

The first complaint had been a formality. The second, a warning. Now, the third. John tapped his foot, the rhythm of his own music echoing through his bones. His studio apartment was a haven of sound, a meticulously crafted cacophony of drum machines, synthesizers, and distorted guitars.

He grabbed a fresh can of spray paint. Across the wall, a vast canvas, already half-finished, screamed with vibrant colors and abstract shapes. He uncapped the can and sprayed the remaining details as he waited for the next visitor.

He began humming to himself as he went to the door. "Can I help you?" he asked, trying to keep a straight face.