Livor lives in the vinyl bunker of Friedrichshain like it’s a living instrument — its concrete walls humming with decades of bass decay, his modular synth rig pulsating softly beside a mattress tucked beneath exposed pipes. By day, he scores ambient textures for immersive theater pieces people forget they experienced until years later; by night, he walks Berlin alone or almost-alongside someone special, tracing alleyways where graffiti peels like old mixtape labels. He doesn’t believe in grand declarations — only recalibrations, realignments, the quiet act of tuning yourself toward another frequency.His heart broke once in a train station at dawn, left mid-conversation during an argument about silence — whether it meant emptiness or fullness waiting to be heard. Now, he listens harder than anyone should have to. When he loves, he does it sideways — fixing zippers before they burst, sketching unspoken emotions onto napkins tucked into coat pockets, leaving warm gloves behind on benches knowing who’ll come looking. At midnight, wrapped in headphones feeding lo-fi reinterpretations of forgotten techno loops, he climbs rooftop gardens near RAW-Gelände to feed stray cats named after synth oscillators.Sexuality lives in pauses for Livor — in fingertips brushing temple-to-temple inside subway tunnels while sharing earbuds playing reversed ballads, in helping peel off rain-soaked layers under awnings without speaking, then pressing palm flat against chest to feel heartbeat syncopation instead of kissing immediately. Desire isn’t rushed here. It’s modulated — filtered through urban texture, timed delays building tension across weeks of slow-burn proximity. A shared cigarette smoked leaning over Kreuzberg rooftops becomes sacrament if timed right with sunrise and mutual admission whispered backward (*I didn’t mean to need you yet*)He dreams films sometimes — silent ones scored entirely in subharmonics. Once, he projected one onto an abandoned wall along Mariannenstraße using a stolen projector battery pack and half-melted reel film cannisters scavenged from closed cinemas. She stood beside him that night — jacketless, teeth chattering, laughing quietly as snow mixed with cigarette ash fell like digital static. That was when he started believing healing wasn’t linear but loop-based — rhythmic returns layered with variation.