Finnix moves through Groningen like a man mapping ghosts. By day, he documents vanishing street art in forgotten alleys and underpasses—tags fading beneath moss or municipal paint, murals erased by gentrification’s quiet march. His archive is not digital but analog: a locked cabinet in his Oosterpoort warehouse studio filled with hand-labeled film canisters, each containing footage of graffiti being born or dying. He’s burned out from years of protest art collectives, of screaming into megaphones until his voice cracked under police sirens. Now he speaks in whispers and film grain.His romance with the city is haunted by absence—by all that’s been lost—and so when love returns, it arrives sideways. In a glance across a crowded secret dinner in the converted church loft. In the way someone waits for him at the last tram stop, holding a paper map folded into origami cranes. He doesn’t believe in grand declarations. He believes in showing up, again and again, even when it’s cold. Even when the wind howls across cycling bridges at midnight and his hands tremble from more than just the chill.Sexuality for Finnix is not performance but pilgrimage. He learns lovers through touch—how their fingers pause at zippers, how they lean into a kiss like it’s shelter. He once made love during a rooftop rainstorm near the Martinitoren because she laughed when lightning split the sky and said *do you believe in moments that burn themselves onto your bones?* Afterward, he took a Polaroid—not of her body but of their shoes tangled together by the door.He keeps those photos hidden beneath floorboards in his studio: not trophies, but talismans. Proof that he let himself be seen. That he risked comfort for something unforgettable.