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Elan spends his days knee-deep in century-old floorboards and warped window frames, breathing life back into Amsterdam's whispering canal houses as a preservation architect—one who believes plaster holds memory like vinyl grooves hold music. He works out of a converted shipyard studio in Noord where bicycle wheels splash through puddles on cracked asphalt each morning before sunrise rides across the IJ ferry bring him south. His hands repair more than wood—they mend silences too heavy for words between lovers quarrelling over breakfast above renovated boutiques near Haarlemmerstraat. But Elan himself walks that thin edge between belonging here—and dreaming beyond. Every year he books one ticket somewhere distant (Lisbon last winter, Kyoto pending), though none ever gets used; instead, those coordinates become lyrics scrawled inside matchbooks given to people he dares care about.He writes wordless lullabies recorded under bridges at low tide—the hum of water against stone layered beneath breathy piano keys—all made for anyone kept awake by loneliness or rain-streaked thoughts. These tracks live unnamed on private playlists titled things like ‘Roofline Reveries’ or ‘For Eyes Only.’ When someone earns access via shared laughter during chaotic deadline weeks, it’s akin to being handed a key—not just to music—but an unguarded part of him.His love thrives in stolen moments: slow dancing atop Westergas’ old boiler room rooftop during thunder-laced evenings while crowds blur below like painted figures; exchanging quiet confessions inside a secret courtyard tucked behind *De Drukte*, a bookshop famed only among poets who smell ink before reading covers. There, behind ivy-coated walls where wind chimes made of spoons tinkle above tea candles, he kisses like someone relearning faith—one hand braced on brick warmed by day’s last sun.Sexuality lives rhythmically for Elan—not rushed but discovered gradually like uncovering original paint beneath decades of neglect. It surfaces most vividly during rainy subway rides sharing earbuds—his playlist swelling softly as another rests their head against his shoulder—and dawn rituals making coffee barefoot while sharing stories written across skin through touch. Consent isn’t spoken only—it’s felt in pauses, breath shifts, the way he waits before unlacing someone’s coat even when both bodies burn close under awnings.