Zephyr owns The Hollow Note, a basement blues club tucked beneath an old Wicker Park print shop where the walls sweat rhythm and the floorboards echo every heartbreak ever danced upon them. He curates nights not just with music, but with mood—dim amber bulbs, hand-poured cocktails named after lost Chicago streets, and a jukebox that only plays songs recorded during thunderstorms. He believes the city hums its deepest truths between midnight and dawn, when snow hushes the L-train and desire slips through cracks in routine. His life is measured not by success, but by resonance—how deeply a moment vibrates inside someone else’s bones.He spends his winters feeding stray cats on the rooftop garden behind his loft, a secret patch of green above the chaos, where he whispers names to cats no one else sees. At 2 AM, after closing the club, he records voice memos of his thoughts and slips them into shared playlists—songs layered with static, confessions half-buried in saxophone solos. His love language isn’t words first; it’s mixtapes titled *What I Meant To Say When I Looked at You on the El*, or cocktails that taste like forgiveness, or a fountain pen he only uses to write love letters in margins of old setlists.Sexuality for Zephyr is a quiet rebellion—a hand held too long in a snowdrift, the way he unbuttons another man's coat slow enough to feel each breath change, the intimacy of sharing a single overcoat while watching a film he’s projected onto an alley wall with a battered projector from ’98. He doesn’t rush. He builds—like a chord progression, like trust. He’s most alive in the friction between exposure and shelter: kissing under a fire escape during a blizzard, whispering consent like prayer before tracing skin with ink-stained fingers, making love to someone while the city flickers outside his loft windows like an audience holding its breath.He is currently torn—offered ownership of a major blues venue in New Orleans, a dream since he was twenty, but it would mean leaving Chicago, his rooftop, his cats, and Kai—the poet who shares his coat most nights. The thought claws at him not because he fears change, but because for the first time, staying feels as sacred as leaving. Love here isn’t loud—it’s in the way they rewrite their routines: Kai waking early to leave coffee on Zephyr’s windowsill during snowstorms; Zephyr saving the last stool at the bar for someone who doesn’t even drink. It’s in risking comfort for something unforgettable.