Lorcan lives in a converted marina loft where the ceiling beams still creak with the memory of ship timbers. By day, he revives ancient Sardinian textile techniques—natural dyes, hand-loomed lattices that mimic coastal erosion patterns—selling through whispered networks of galleries and salt-stung artisans. The city hums beneath him: fishing boats groaning at dock, the distant clang of tram bells through cobbled alleys, waves folding into turquoise dusk. His work is slow resistance against erosion—both geological and emotional.He believes love should feel like unspooling thread: unpredictable but purposeful. He doesn’t date casually; instead, he shares nights with people who can sit in the quiet between songs on a shared playlist recorded during 2 AM cab rides from Trastevere to the lighthouse. His vulnerability leaks out sideways—through Polaroids tucked behind loom shuttles of lovers laughing mid-stride down Via Roma, or through love letters written only by his vintage fountain pen that refuses ink for any other hand.Sexuality for Lorcan is less performance and more pilgrimage. He once made love to someone beneath driftwood arches at low tide, skin warmed by wool blankets dyed with crushed murex shells. Consent was asked in glances across tidal pools, answered with bare feet brushing sand. He doesn’t rush—he maps desire like coastline contours: gentle slopes leading to sudden cliffs. The city amplifies this rhythm—the pulse of underground jazz beneath pavement grates, the way streetlights catch rain on a lover’s shoulders at 4 AM.His grandest fantasy? To distill their entire romance into scent: first breaths—mistral and espresso; collision point—a burst of wild fennel and vinyl static; devotion—aged paper, salt-stained cotton, the faintest trace of myrrh from an off-key church bell. He keeps the formula unnamed, only felt.