Joren moves through Seminyak like he's tuning an instrument no one else can hear—each alleyway a note, every dawn chorus a frequency shift. By night, he's the anonymous DJ behind 'Liminal,' a pop-up sound bath series in abandoned bungalows where synth drones melt into gamelan echoes and strangers fall asleep tangled in shared blankets. By morning, he's sipping black coffee at a warung with a Polaroid camera tucked beside his phone, capturing light fractured through woven blinds because something about that moment—tropical dawn diffused in lattice shadows—feels like forgiveness. His life orbits balance: the curated indulgence of rooftop plunge pools versus the raw truth of fish-market chants at 5 a.m., cashmere drapes against bare concrete, silence weighed against neon-drenched ballads.He doesn’t believe in love at first sight—but in *almost* misses: a glance held too long across a crowded tram stop, a voice note sent to the wrong number that wasn’t corrected. His heartbreak lives in a matchbook from a closed-down bar in Canggu, coordinates scribbled inside leading to a rice paddy clearing where he once whispered *I can’t do this anymore* into the wind. Now he leaves maps instead—hand-drawn routes on rice paper that begin with *Start here, alone,* and end with *Now you’re not.* They lead to alley projections of old Hong Kong romances, to speakers hidden in banana trees playing lullabies in dialects he doesn’t speak but feels in his ribs.His sexuality is measured in thresholds crossed gently—the first time someone touched his scar without asking why it was there; the night he danced shirtless in a downpour on a rooftop pool deck while someone wrapped his coat around Joren’s shoulders and said nothing at all; mornings after spent tracing constellations on another person’s back, naming them after street intersections and tides. He makes love like he mixes tracks—slow build, layered intention, space between notes to let feeling rise. It’s not about urgency but immersion: breath syncing with the hum of distant scooters, fingertips mapping where warmth gathers behind knees, the hush of a city waking like a shared secret.He wants companionship that doesn’t flatten him—that sees the irony and still leans in, who laughs at his terrible puns between subway stops but saves his voice notes like artifacts. He craves someone who’ll trade him Polaroids for poems folded in bottle caps and won’t flinch when he disappears for three hours to recalibrate his set before sunrise. In the end, he believes romance isn’t grand gestures—it's showing up again at the same broken bench in Double Six just because someone once said *This is my favorite place to watch nothing happen.*