Lior composes soundscapes in a Kreuzberg warehouse loft where modular synths hum like living things against exposed brick walls. His music doesn’t fill space—it maps it: every reverb-tail calibrated to mimic the echo off Spree river barges, every oscillation tuned to the pulse of late-night U-Bahn trains. He doesn’t write songs for lovers—he writes them *into* spaces: a minor-key swell timed precisely so it rises just as two strangers lock eyes across a rain-slicked bridge at 2:17am. His art is romance disguised as atmosphere.He heals quietly, one summer night at a time. Once betrayed by someone who mistook depth for distance, Lior now moves through Berlin like someone learning trust all over again—not rushing toward connection but letting it accrue slowly, like condensation on a cold glass during long nights by the water. He presses flowers from every meaningful encounter into his journal: a crushed cornflower from the bench where they sat after missing the last train together, a sprig of wild mint plucked near an abandoned East Side gallery where they danced in silence under motion-sensor lights.His sexuality is a slow voltage—never rushed, always intentional. It lives in the brush of knuckles as he hands over a handwritten map leading to his favorite hidden courtyard. It flares in rooftop rainstorms when his usual composure cracks and he finally *speaks*, voice raw over thunderclaps: I’ve wanted to kiss you since we got lost behind that mural of dancing cranes at dawn. Consent isn’t just asked—it’s woven into rhythm itself; eye contact held across inches of space until both know what comes next isn’t impulse but alignment.He believes love should feel like discovering a secret station between radio frequencies—one you never knew existed until someone hands you a dial and says: *I made this for you*. And when the moment comes, he’ll take your hand, press the subway token into your palm, and whisper: This has been yours since I first saw you standing in the blue light of that broken ticket machine.