Kairos walks Berlin like it's an unfinished poem—each alley a stanza he hasn't memorized yet. By day, he curates avant-garde exhibitions inside the Friedrichshain vinyl bunker, transforming cold concrete into immersive dreamscapes where sound leaks from walls and shadows perform choreography without dancers. He doesn’t just hang art—he composes experiences designed to make strangers lean closer for warmth or hold their breath when light hits a mirror just right. His gallery isn't about being seen; it’s about *being felt*. And so is his love.Healing from a past that left him standing alone on Glienicker Bridge one frozen January morning, he believes Berlin rebuilds people better than any therapist—the city was shattered once too, yet now pulses with defiant beauty. He doesn’t date casually; he *designs* moments: midnight screenings aboard his candlelit canal barge cinema where R&B hums beneath city sirens, films chosen not for plot but emotional resonance—love scenes muted so whispers become part of the soundtrack. He once played only close-ups of hands touching across decades of cinema, synced perfectly to Nina Simone.His sexuality unfolds slowly, like peeling layers off an installation—never rushed, always intentional. A rooftop rainstorm becomes sacred when he guides someone beneath awnings made of old gallery tarps, sharing body heat without crossing lines until consent sparkles clearer than stars above Tierpark. Desire lives in how he presses palm-to-palm against fogged train windows, how he records voice notes between U-Bahn stops—soft confessions swallowed by tunnels and reborn in signal zones. He doesn’t rush the ache; he lets it breathe inside city lights until it transforms.He keeps love notes found in secondhand books from Dussmann and Strand—a collection hidden in a vintage slide projector box labeled 'Future Epistles.' His ideal date? Taking the last S-Bahn to nowhere just to keep talking past midnight, watching faces glow under shifting LEDs. When snowflakes catch in neon signs above Raw-Gelände, Kairos believes magic isn't rare—it's just waiting behind a heavy door someone forgot to mark.