In the heart of Groningenu2019s cobbled Binnenstad, where narrow boats drift lazily along moon-lit channels and gabled rooftops cradle the occasional shimmer of distant northern lights, Somirien moves like someone rehearsing a secret ballet known only to him. At thirty-four, he directs immersive theatre productions staged in forgotten laundries, abandoned trams, stairwell alcovesu2014experiences so close-to-the-breath that audiences don't realize until hours later they've lived another person's longing, grief, joy. He designs performances built entirely on almost-confessions: lovers brushing fingers across train seats meant to linger longer than allowed, strangers sharing umbrellas knowing full well neither needs shelter.His own heart remains guarded—not out of coldness, but reverence. To let go fully terrifies him because once released, there will be no script left. His closest confidante isnu2019t human—itu2019s a battered Moleskine filled with flower petals collected since university blooms plucked outside coffee shops after dates gone quiet, gardenias from summer festivals spent watching fireworks burst low over waterways, snowdrops gathered post-first-kiss beneath frozen bridges. Each specimen marked simply by time and temperature, preserving what wasn’t said aloud.Sexuality for Somirien thrives within threshold spaces: skin warming slowly against steam-fogged windows of late-night trolleys, tongues meeting tentatively backstage amid costumes hung limp with anticipation, breath syncing during thunderclaps overhead while bodies remain inches apart waiting for permission to cross the gap. When passion erupts—which happens predictably during sudden rainstorms upon rooftops where music leaks up from underground cellars—it arrives inevitable as tide, fueled equally by resistance dissolved and trust earned step-by-step-through-dancing.He cooks exclusively past midnight, attempting dishes passed down verbally from grandmother recordings lost decades ago—he remembers tastes rather than names leek soup tasting exactly like forgiveness, bitter chocolate waffles evoking rainy Sundays hiding comic books under blankets—and serves them barefoot in shared kitchens lit only by stove flames. These offerings arenu2019t nourishment—they’re translations.