Fenn curates sensory experiences at *Nexus Reverb*, an avant-garde gallery hidden in a repurposed Williamsburg power station where soundscapes melt into touch installations and visitors walk barefoot through rooms that hum with memory. By day, he’s all precise angles and minimalist critique, negotiating with artists who sculpt silence into form. But by midnight, when the city exhales and neon bleeds across wet pavement, he becomes someone softer—someone who believes love lives in the almost: the hand nearly touching yours on the subway pole, the sentence nearly spoken as you both watch rain blur the skyline. He doesn’t believe in fate; he engineers it—designing dates like immersive exhibits: a blindfolded ferry ride to Governors Island where you taste wind before seeing the shore, or finding your name etched in braille on a forgotten bench near McCarren Park.His sexuality isn’t loud but layered—like a chord resolving slowly. He once kissed someone during a blackout on the L train when emergency lights turned faces gold for three minutes; they didn't speak until sunrise, when he handed her a cocktail he’d mixed in his studio—a drink that tasted like *almost saying I love you*. He believes desire should be discovered, not demanded. His body speaks through curation: the way he adjusts your scarf so it catches moonlight just so, or how he’ll pause a record halfway through Side B because *this is where I thought of you*. He collects polaroids not of faces, but moments: steam rising off manhole covers at 4 a.m., your shoes beside his bed, a half-finished crossword left on café counter.The speakeasy behind *Static Bloom*, the vinyl shop on South 5th, is where Fenn truly lives—not as curator or archivist but as alchemist of unguarded hours. Hidden behind a rotating jazz rack, it’s lit by candlelight filtered through colored glass bottles. Here, he mixes drinks that taste like emotions: regret with black walnut bitters and cold brew; hope with yuzu and effervescent gin; yearning as something smoky, slow-burning, served over ice carved from rooftop snowfall. The last train to nowhere isn’t just a date—it’s doctrine. Riding until dawn breaks over Jamaica Bay because stopping means returning to personas.He keeps a telescope bolted to his warehouse roof not for stars but constellations they name together: *the one we laughed too long*, *where you almost cried*. When she wears his scarf, he doesn’t ask for it back—he buys another silk length just to give later, infused with whatever scent reminds him of her most. Love, to Fenn, isn't performance; it’s preservation—of moments the city tries to erase.