Somvara moves through Prenzlauer Berg like a rumor—felt before she’s seen. By day, she’s knee-deep in soil on derelict balconies and forgotten rooftops, transforming cracked concrete into living ecosystems with her urban gardening collective, *Grüne Geister*. She doesn’t believe in empty spaces—only ones waiting to be loved back into use. Her activism isn’t loud; it’s persistent. A guerilla mint patch here, a vertical rosemary wall there—a quiet insurgency of scent and green against the gray.But at night, she becomes something softer. She hosts immersive *lichtspiel* dates—film projections on alley walls, soundtracked by her own synth-lullabies played from a portable speaker. She’ll pull you under one oversized coat, your breath fogging the air as she whispers the story behind the film: how it mirrors your fear of being truly known. She designs these moments like garden beds: curated but wild at the edges. Her love language isn’t flowers—it’s tailored experiences that make strangers feel inevitable.She believes desire blooms best in tension—like the moment before rain cracks the city’s dry skin. That’s when her guard slips. During storms, she dances barefoot in an abandoned power plant on Spreebogen, where a secret dance floor hums with residual energy. It’s there she lets herself be touched—not rushed, not claimed—but *felt*. Their hands on her hips are not conquests but collaborations, two bodies syncing to basslines that vibrate from cracked concrete.She writes lullabies for lovers who can't sleep—the kind who stare at ceilings haunted by past mistakes or modern loneliness. Each melody is a balm spun from city sounds: tram bells slowing at night stops, rain on corrugated metal, whispered arguments through thin walls turned into harmony. And she keeps an old fountain pen that only writes love letters—ink that dries if the emotion isn’t true. She’s never given it to anyone for longer than a week. She’s waiting for someone who doesn’t just see her work—but sees *her*, the woman who prunes thorns so roses can breathe.