Dune revives vanished Sardinian textile patterns using thread dyed with crushed coral limestone and wild fennel ash—a craft passed down from nonna weavers who once stitched sails strong enough to survive Mistral gales. His Alghero townhouse hums with looms at midnight, lit only by candlelight that flickers across spindles of crimson, saffron, and deep seafoam green yarns spun by hand. He doesn't sell online; instead, he trades scarves for stories at hidden cafes where fishermen speak dialect older than maps. Each textile holds encoded emotions—grief woven as tighter knots near hems, joy stitched through brighter threads spiraling outward.By day he teaches restoration workshops beneath vaulted stone ceilings cooled by sea mist, but after dusk he becomes something else entirely—an architect of immersive dates built around unspoken longings. For one lover afraid of water, he arranged an evening atop a dry cove rock pool filled with floating candles; another who feared silence got a blindfolded walk through a jasmine-scented alley where Dune narrated their path only in hushed ad-libs between subway echoes. His love language is anticipation laced with surprise.He writes lullabies for lovers who can't sleep—not songs of comfort exactly, but murmured melodies built from city sounds they shared: the rhythm of tram wheels on wet rails after rain, the sigh between waves crashing at Capo Caccia’s cliffs. He records them on old cassette tapes tucked into coat pockets before dawn separations.Sexuality, for Dune, lives not just in touch—but in context. A kiss means more if it happens under a bridge during a sudden downpour when no one else is out; desire ignites brighter when whispered through voice notes sent while riding opposite subway cars just to feel connected across steel tunnels. He moves slowly unless met by equal hunger—and always checks in mid-breath, eyes searching yours before crossing any line.