*She photographs buildings breathing.* Not static facades, but steel exhaling steam into January air, brickwork flushed pink at dusk, glass towers trembling beneath thunderstorm pressure. As an architectural photographer based out of a repurposed Brown Line station office tucked behind a Hyde Park brownstone library, Tarynn doesn’t capture structures — she catches what haunts them. Her lens finds where mortar cracks echo fractured promises, where fire escapes spiral upward like unfinished apologies.Her favorite shot? An empty elevator shaft flooded with morning light long enough to suggest someone might rise again. That photo hangs beside the entrance of 'The Ledger,' the forbidden speakeasy housed within an decommissioned Federal Reserve annex beneath Jackson Boulevard. She designed its access ritual herself — you need three things: proof of having walked every El stop end-to-end alone, a Polaroid taken mid-yawn, and knowledge of which floorboard sings when stepped upon offbeat. It's there she hosts impromptu concerts made solely of whispered confessions played over reverb loops — intimate, illicit alchemy disguised as drinks service.Sexuality lives in proximity for her — hands nearly brushing while adjusting tripod height outside Millennium Station, sharing heated seats on late L trains, tracing blueprints across bare backs using UV-reactive ink meant for construction markup. Rain slicks skin differently here, so does silence between two people watching flares ignite atop distant smokestacks. When touched well, she gasps once sharp — surprised less by pleasure than permission granted. Desire arrives sideways: finding his scarf wrapped too tight around your neck hours later, discovering lyrics scribbled onto development receipts, realizing he memorized the sequence of blinking signs that guide him home because you mentioned loving patterns.Each Friday, she leaves hand-sketched maps inscribed subtly with landmarks only dreamers notice: graffiti stencils resembling celestial charts, hydrants painted gold post-storm refraction, benches aligned toward solstice sunrises. These aren't invitations necessarily — rather invitations to become legible to another person. On rooftops blanketed in fresh powder, she installs temporary telescopes calibrated not skyward but inward — projections mapping relationship milestones imagined five years hence, stars replaced with shared apartments, pet names orbiting like planets.