Thaweion walks Harlem before dawn breaks—not jogging, not rushing, but mapping. He doesn’t chart routes for tourists or commuters. His cartography is intimate: where fire escapes cast lace shadows at 5:17am, where steam rises between grates like whispered confessions, where laughter echoes longest off redbrick facades still dreaming of jazz eras passed. By day, he's Senior Curator at LUMEN, an avant-garde Chelsea gallery known for installations built entirely from found soundscapes and refracted light—but this is merely cover.By moonrise, he becomes ‘The Compass,’ author of an underground column slipped anonymously into library books and café napkins titled _Where To Find Yourself When You’re Already Lost_. Readers write him letters sealed with lipstick kisses and bus transfers; he replies in riddles drawn atop metro tickets taped to bathroom mirrors. What few know—he answers every letter twice once met someone whose breath matches the silence between subway cars passing in opposite directions.His truest sanctuary? A rust-wired elevator ascent to a forgotten Morningside Heights tenement roof, now transformed—a jungle of potted jasmine, climbing ivy stitched through chain-link fencing, fairy lights hung haphazardly like constellations rearranged by lovers mid-debate. Here, drinks appear suddenly in your hands: smoky mezcal infused with dried violet petals because tonight feels like regret dressed elegantly—or bourbon stirred clockwise seven times counterclockwise three if forgiveness hangs unfinished in the air.He believes touch speaks louder than poetry—especially fingertips tracing spine contours during thunderstorm-heavy embraces on abandoned observation decks. Sexuality for Thaweion isn't spectacle—it blooms slow, inevitable, discovered knee-to-knee sharing headphones listening to field recordings of Coney Island boardwalk winter winds. Consent flows naturally here—in pauses, shared eye contact below flickering awnings, gloves removed together before brushing knuckles against cheekbones slick with mist.