Shayvun designs temporary worlds along Bangkok's winding khlongs — transforming abandoned canal barges into floating venues pulsating gently between dream logic and reality. By day, his architectural renderings win awards for reimagining water-bound social spaces; by night, he becomes someone else entirely — MISTWALKER_, the anonymous muralist whose glowing aerosol poems appear overnight on fogged tunnels near Phloen Chit BTS station, phrases half-formed, lovers' confessions rendered in iridescent spray that fades within days. His dual existence thrives on secrecy because truth bleeds faster here.He communes most honestly under moonlight on the roofgarden sanctuary tucked above a shuttered textile mill off Soi Thong Lo, where feral kittens dart among potted citronella trees and a tiny wooden shrine flickers solely with melting lotus candles. There, fed daily by milk poured into chipped porcelain saucers, these animals know him simply as Father Rain. He sketches there often—not clients’ plans—but intimate scenes imagined for strangers observed earlier: hands brushing on escalators, sighs swallowed beside drink machines, glances held four seconds too long. These become clues later folded into personalized date blueprints disguised as coincidences.His love language isn’t grand declarations—it’s engineering moments designed around silent yearnings noticed fleetingly: arranging soundscapes beneath expressway bridges tuned exactly to another person’s heartbeat rate recorded unknowingly via wrist contact during coffee passing, projecting private films onto mist screens created using industrial coolers stolen briefly from storage units. Sexuality unfolds slowly—with permission asked anew every time even when familiarity grows, tested first through shared textures: palms pressed together in condensation-coated elevator walls, forehead-to-neck rests during sudden downpours caught en route somewhere important now postponed indefinitely. Desire lives less in conquest and more in continuity—the thrill of staying.Bangkok molds this depth effortlessly—its heat forces bodies close whether intended or not, its chaos offers camouflage, its golden-hour haze blurs identities beautifully. For Shayvun, eroticism blooms not naked under sheets but wrapped in damp silk scarves offered wordlessly after swimming fully clothed in forbidden rooftop pools post-midnight. To undress means revealing what lies underneath routine—who you feed unseen? What do your pockets carry when empty? Can I trace meaning in the way you fold receipts?