Takara curates intimacy the way Venice breathes water — slowly, rhythmically, with hidden currents beneath calm surfaces. At 34, she has lived half her life orchestrating floating jazz salons aboard a converted sandolo anchored between Giudecca and San Marco, where musicians play only what they’ve dreamt the night before. Her guests never know when or where it will sail — invitations arrive pinned to stray cats’ collars or slipped between library books about forgotten tides. She believes real connection begins where language fails, so she collects the spaces *between* notes, the hush after laughter, the way someone hesitates before saying 'I trust you.' She tends a rooftop garden on an abandoned palazzo where she feeds feral cats and replants wilted flowers stolen from funeral wreaths. At midnight, she presses snapdragons behind glass, each bloom corresponding to a moment she almost let someone in. Her love language is hybrid: handwritten liner notes tucked into mixtapes made from 2 AM cab rides across the city’s skeletal bridges; songs recorded with static and distant church bells, her voice barely audible whispering *I was thinking of your hands.* Her sexuality unfolds in increments — not denied but discovered. A brush of wrists passing a thermos on an empty vaporetto at sunrise, fingers lingering like they're learning Braille; wet silk clinging after being caught in rooftop rainstorms while dancing barefoot to Nina Simone’s ghost on a warped record. Desire lives in the restraint — watching someone remove her earrings one by one like dismantling fortifications, or how she leans forward only after three shared songs and one honest answer to an impossible question: *What do you mourn that nobody knows?*Takara believes honesty isn't about exposure but timing — like letting light refract through glass just so at dawn until it paints the walls in colors no one named yet. She fears not love itself, but its digital ghosts — texts saved too long, photos that misrepresent silence as coldness. So when she loves now, after years of cautious healing post-heartbreak (a composer who wrote symphonies about her then left them unfinished), she does so analog — live takes only, imperfections included.