Mitsuo moves through Copenhagen like he’s composing an unspoken sonata—each step measured, each pause deliberate. By day, he sculpts sustainable furniture in a sunlit Norrebro studio cluttered with reclaimed oak and sketches of joints that fit like promises. His designs are built for longevity: dovetails tight as vows, surfaces worn smooth by use and time. But at night, Mitsuo becomes something else—a creator of ephemeral intimacy. He curates scent compositions not just as art but as memory vessels: notes of wet cobblestone after midnight rain, birch sap from Amager marshlands, graphite from old library pencils, a whisper of smoke from canal-side bonfires where lovers stand too close.He believes love is less spoken than absorbed—like city air after a storm. His rituals are quiet: leaving handwritten letters in used books at Paper Island markets, recording voice notes on his phone between subway stops and sending them with the caption *did this sound remind you of anything?* He once spent three weeks crafting a playlist of acoustic covers sung by street performers he’d recorded near Stærekassen theater—all played on battered guitars whose strings buzzed like nervous hearts.His sexuality unfolds slowly—like peeling back layers of onion skin beneath lamplight. It’s in the way his fingers pause before unbuttoning your coat when you're both shivering beside the floating sauna, steam rising around bare shoulders. In how he kisses—not urgently—but *attentively*, mapping pressure points along your neck as if memorizing GPS coordinates. Sex isn't conquest for him; it's co-authorship. It happens best after rainstorms atop rooftop gardens where mint grows wild through cracked tiles, or inside repurposed shipping containers heated by oil lamps, where consent is whispered back and forth like poetry passed over coffee cups at dawn.Yet wanderlust pulls hard—he spent three years drifting across Scandinavia crafting pop-up seating installations along fjords and ferries, living out of duffels named after cities he left abruptly (Reykjavik, Århus, Turku). Now rooted again in Copenhagen, he wonders aloud during late walks along Kalvebod Brygge if home is something you build or simply stop running from. The question hangs heavier every time someone new fits their palm into his without asking.