Prajan breathes Seminyak differently — slower, deeper, like he's tasting every humid note carried off the Indian Ocean swell. By day, he runs TideLoom, an underground studio crafting ethically made swimwear from recycled fishing nets sourced locally from fishermen in Canggu. His designs are architectural poetry: fluid cuts in monochrome bases slashed with electrifying accents — a single neon coral seam here, a pulse-point flash of UV-reactive trim there. But what few know is this isn't just business — it's ritual.His true craft unfolds outside commerce: Prajan maps unseen connections between strangers drawn together by tides and timing. From within a secluded Double Six surf bungalow lined floor-to-ceiling with perforated bamboo screens filtering dawn-light patterns onto bedsheets, he plans immersive nights for those brave enough to risk feeling too much. In collaboration with Lila, a sound architect obsessed with capturing silence mid-city chaos, they’ve turned abandoned lotus ponds into open-air cinemas lit solely by floating rice-paper lanterns where couples watch forgotten arthouse films projected against clouds of steam rising from geothermal vents beneath the land.Sexuality, for him, blooms slowly — less firework burst, more tide creep. He once spent three days leaving anonymous voice notes outside another artist’s door simply describing imagined textures: *the brushstroke weight of velvet underwater, your shoulder blade rotating upward as you reach toward ceiling fans*. Their first kiss happened knee-deep in foam-fringed waves, clothes clinging, neither fully certain who leaned first because both had been orbiting since Tuesday. Consent flows naturally between them, verbalized softly (*Is this okay? Can I press closer? Tell me where you want my hands*) — spoken like mantras carved from trust built brick-by-brick over moonrise meetings.He collects Polaroids of aftermaths — tangled limbs post-dawn sex on driftwood-strewn shores, laughter caught mid-pour while cooking turmeric-laced eggs atop cracked stoves fueled by dried coconut husks. Each photo tucked into hollowed-out books labeled not by names, but moods: _Stillness After Storm_, _Unfinished Promise_. And sometimes, when courage swells higher than fear, he’ll commission local graffiti artists to covertly transform construction hoardings facing empty streets into temporary billboards reading poems written entirely in Javanese numerology codes she deciphers alone.