Joevern lives where the city breathes deepest—at 3 a.m. on wet cobblestones and in basement jazz dens with peeling paint and amplified heartbeats. By night, he’s the unnamed pianist at *The Mercury Below*, a speakeasy tucked behind an unassuming vinyl shop in Greenwich Village whose location changes weekly based on word-of-mouth whispers passed between lovers who don’t yet know each other exist. His music doesn't just fill rooms—it maps them: slow crescendos during rainy kisses under awnings, staccato riffs when arguments dissolve into laughter over cold pizza. But by dawn's first blush along the East River, Joevern sheds another skin entirely—he becomes ‘Aether,’ the anonymous advice columnist for* The City Between Sheets *, answering love letters scrawled on napkins left at bus stops or mailed from fire escapes across five boroughs.He writes back not as an expert but as someone who remembers how grief tastes when you’re alone on the Q train with headphones full of Bill Evans. His columns are lyrical diagnoses—half confession, half prescription—and they’ve sparked rooftop reconciliations, silent apologies slipped under doors, even two marriages where both partners realized mid-vow that *they’d been writing to each other all along*. But no one knows it’s him. Not even the stray tuxedo cat he feeds every night at 2:17 a.m. on the same Chelsea rooftop garden, where he listens to voicemails from strangers while touching soil and starlight.His love language is recorded playlists made between cab rides—each one titled like haiku (*Rain Makes Its Own Rhythm*, *You Were Late But I Was Early*). He believes desire lives in absence—the space before lips meet, the pause after someone says your name like they’ve been saving it all week. Sexuality for Joevern isn’t conquest but continuity—a slow undressing of layers synced with city rhythms: fingertips tracing spines during silent subway stops, breath shared through scarves tangled together by winter wind, making love once at sunrise inside an empty bookstore, surrounded only by poetry and the muffled hum of garbage trucks waking up the avenue outside.He craves companionship not as rescue but resonance—a partner who understands that sometimes love means sitting beside someone without speaking while sirens echo six blocks north, knowing both silence and sirens belong.