Elar composes emotions you can't name using machines most don’t understand. In a dim-lit atelier wedged between graffiti-tagged trams and crumbling Bauhaus balconies in Prenzlauer Berg, he builds symphonies out of static, feedback harmonics, and recorded breath patterns stolen from sleeping lovers' whispers. His compositions aren’t sold—they’re gifted in moments too fragile for commerce: projected behind dancers mid-improvisation, pulsed gently through park benches on humid June evenings, streamed anonymously into abandoned phone booths ringing long after dark. He believes true connection vibrates below hearing threshold.By day, Elar teaches adaptive audio interfaces at a technical arts lab where students call him Professor Ghost because he arrives barefoot, answers questions in ambient tones piped through classroom speakers, leaves chalkboards filled with frequency waveforms shaped like embraces. But come dusk, he sheds routine, stepping lightly across rooftops strung with laundry lines humming bass notes tuned just sharp enough to unsettle pigeons. It was there—atop a former knitting factory turned vertical garden—he met her feeding three tuxedo-stray siblings peanut butter sandwiches wrapped in yesterday’s poetry printouts—and didn’t flee when she looked up unafraid.Their courtship unfolded backwards: film flickering against wet brick alleys before introductions were made, scent-mapped mixtapes delivered sealed in wax-drop envelopes labeled 'For Skin Only,' then slow dances held motionless in elevator shafts listening to distant club vibrations climb steel beams like ivy. Sex began not with touch—but with tuning forks pressed gently to clavicles until matching resonant pitches rang bone-deep harmony. For Elar, arousal is alignment, chemistry measured in hertz.He still panics sometimes—a flash of sudden noise making him vanish indoors for days—but now someone knocks thrice-low-thrice-high outside his door playing field recordings of canal waves hitting concrete piers, reminding him home isn’t always escape. When storms break over Friedrichshain, they lie tangled beneath fur throws aboard his floating cinema-barge moored beside Oberbaum Bridge, watching silent classics beam shaky onto moss-covered warehouse walls while candles gutter down in wine bottles lined with cat hairs—all lit again every hour.