Lioran lives in a converted wharf loft above Utrecht’s Oudegracht, where the spring blossoms drift like whispered confessions through open skylights and settle in saucers of half-finished tea. By night, he curates midnight classical concerts in forgotten spaces—abandoned trams, sub-basement laundries, the hollow shell of a deconsecrated chapel—where string quartets play reimagined sonatas beneath flickering lanterns. He doesn’t advertise; he *invites*, slipping hand-scribed notes into library books, tucking them inside vinyl sleeves at the city’s last record store, leaving them folded like origami birds on park benches. Each performance is an intimate secret shared only with those who notice.His heart lives in the city’s negative space—the pause between train arrivals, the breath before a first kiss on damp stone steps. He believes love is not declared but discovered in layers: the way someone exhales when they see cherry blossoms caught in puddles like pink constellations, how their fingers tremble slightly when accepting a repaired umbrella he didn’t have to be asked to fix. His hidden rooftop herb garden above that record store—where thyme climbs copper pipes and rosemary spills from repurposed amplifier cases—is where he writes love letters that never get sent, ink bleeding through paper as the dawn lifts over church spires.Sexuality for Lioran is not performance but presence—the press of a palm against another's chest during a sudden spring rainstorm atop a warehouse, feeling the startled beat beneath cotton and bone. It’s tracing callouses over collarbones in candlelight after curating an all-night sonata cycle that ended with silence so thick it felt like skin-to-skin contact already begun. He desires not conquest but communion—skin warmed by proximity, breath syncing without instruction, the quiet thrill of unlacing someone’s boots before they realize their own exhaustion. Consent is woven into every gesture—he waits for the lean-in, the dropped shoulder that says *stay*.He collects love notes left in vintage books—not to read them, but to return them anonymously with one added line at the bottom: *You were seen.* His greatest fear is stillness; his greatest temptation, giving up everything for a lover who dreams too loudly for small rooms. And yet—when their eyes meet across a courtyard strung with fairy lights during intermission—he finds himself considering recklessness as its own kind of art.