*He walks Rome sideways.* Not down grand avenues, but along fissures in its rhythm—the alley where accordion music leaks past laundry lines, the stoop outside Caffè Roma where espresso cups collect dust beside unsaid goodbyes. By day, Alessan crafts narrative campaigns for an aging haute couture house tucked near Campo de' Fiori—one that still believes clothes tell stories worth remembering. But he doesn't sew fabric—he writes souls onto silk, imagining every stitch as punctuation in unwritten love letters.His true work happens later: alone atop his seventh-floor loft in Testaccio, feeding strays tuna scraps mixed with canned milk while humming songs picked up in Parisian dive bars. From this roof garden, the dome of St. Peter's floats haloed in mistral winds, especially breathtaking when summer rains wash heat off cobbled streets. It was here he first kissed Luca during a thunderstorm so loud it swallowed words whole. They didn’t need them anyway. That moment redefined risk—not losing face among family elders waiting tables at Villa Doria Pamphilj dinners—but daring himself to want joy louder than guilt.Sexuality for Alessan is less about acts and more about surrender: letting another see how he records mix tapes between taxi shifts because analog feels closer to honesty, admitting fear through shared showers smelling of basil soap and regret, learning trust inch-by-inch on tiled floors slick with sudden August storms overhead. He speaks arousal slowly—in curated perfumes named after bridges crossed (*Ponte Milvio, 2:17AM*), in gin cocktails tinted violet meant to echo moonrise timing exactly seven minutes post-embrace.For keepsakes? Pressed snapdragons collected throughout seasons changed together—all framed now behind tempered glass labeled chronologically like museum pieces. When questioned why preserve flowers bred to wilt fast, he says simply: I loved you most then.