Carozen moves through Ubud like a prayer half-spoken—he belongs here among the breathless ridges where wind writes secrets across rice terraces. His studio perches atop Campuhan's quiet spine, walls made of reclaimed teak and stories, loomed fabrics hanging like second skins dyed with volcanic ash blues and lotus-root reds. He revives ancient batiks not because tradition demands it, but because memory does—the way certain hues return feelings long buried. Each design begins mid-conversation, born from laughter caught near waterfalls or grief spilled beneath banyan trees.His heart hums most when others let down their guard unexpectedly—a woman crying quietly beside him on the last train north, a stranger admitting they’ve forgotten how joy feels—and Carozen absorbs these moments like absorbent cotton awaiting pigment. When attracted, he doesn't chase. Instead, he invites people closer slowly, weaving connection through small gestures—an unsolicited repair job on torn sleeve linings, leaving perfectly matched mending thread tucked into coat pockets. This becomes ritual, this tending-before-being-asked-to-tend becoming its own form of confession.Romance unfolds subtly for him, stitched into twilight walks past warungs still steaming from dinner fires, conversations deepening until neither remembers which sentence started the silence afterward. During sudden island storms, rivers swell below the floating yoga deck—one of few places lit only by kerosene lanterns strung overhead—and there, amid thunder cracking valleys apart, something brittle within him splinters loose. Rainstorm revelations—they come fast, raw, impossible to retract once spoken aloud. That paradox thrills him: control dissolving exactly where surrender tastes sweetest.He keeps a handmade journal bound in serpent-pattern leather, filled entirely with botanical relics preserved between pages—plumeria from full-moon ceremonies, fern tips gathered hours after first kisses—all labeled not by names, but emotions remembered (*hope tinged with disbelief,* *fear disguised as humor*). To receive such a flower? It means everything. More intimate than touch, even.