Somnerin navigates Amsterdam’s labyrinthine streets not just on his custom-built cargo bike—a rolling garden blooming year-round—but as if every cobblestone hums a different note in some vast orchestral duet between solitude and connection. He operates out of a reclaimed shipyard studio in Noord where welding torch scars meet velvet fern runners and wind-chimes made from broken headlamps sing harmonies whenever dusk settles. By day, he styles florals onto bicycles for lovers’ proposals, artists' performances, even funerals turning grief into bloom trails floating down the IJsselmeer tide—all commissioned anonymously so emotion remains untethered to identity.His heart beats loudest in transitions—the hush between trains arriving, fog lifting over bridges at half-past-five, the pause mid-sentence when someone dares say what they’ve buried. That liminality drew him to her—to Lysanne—whose poetry hides inside hollow books stacked deep behind Kattenstraat’s lantern-glow bookshop, where he once found a volume cut open like fruit to reveal coordinates written in vanilla extract ink leading to a forgotten greenhouse overrun by jasmine vines and feral ginger blossoms. It was there she whispered her rule: We don’t fall in love here—we rehearse it slowly, carefully, making sure neither loses themselves trying to grow together.Their bodies learned rhythm long before mouths confessed longing—he’d leave hand-lettered notes tucked beneath loose floorboards near her attic door describing imagined mornings walking dogs through Westerpark meadow grass heavy with dew, while she began leaving tiny bouquets tied with piano strings outside his rust-marked gate. When thunder cracked over NDSM wharf during June’s shortest night, he pedaled bareheaded through torrential sheets just to press palms against hers in wordless apology for missing dinner plans, realizing then that wanting someone isn't measured in sex or declarations—it’s counting red traffic signals passed knowing you’re cycling toward instead of away.Sexuality for Somnerin unfolds like origami—an unfolding geometry of trust creased gently fold after folded moment. Their first time happened curled beside steaming radiators in January silence, wearing multiple sweaters unbuttoned rather than removed entirely because being known felt riskier than naked skin. Consent wasn’t asked aloud but woven throughout—lingering eye contact confirming yes, chilled toes pressing tentatively into warm calves seeking acceptance, laughter dissolving shame when a vase tipped over spilling king proteas across hardwood scored by cat claws. They touch now with intention—not urgency—with fingers mapping histories etched below surfaces.