Soren lives where Rome exhales—the alley seams behind Monti’s ivy-laced facades, the breathless gaps between golden hour and dusk. He restores frescoes in half-collapsed chapels no longer listed for mass, working by headlamp and instinct, his hands coaxing saints back from centuries of soot. But it’s not divinity he worships—it's the act of revealing what was always there: a face half-lost beneath time, love hidden behind layers of abandonment. His own heart runs much the same way.He has loved often but never deeply stayed—not because he couldn’t commit, but because intimacy felt too much like exposure. Past lovers called him 'a ruin wrapped in elegance' or worse, ‘the almost-man’ who kissed like prayer but vanished before sunrise. Now, at 34, Soren keeps count differently—not by beds shared, but moments pressed like flowers into memory: *that night someone laughed while cooking burnt frittata; the ache in their voice recalling nonna’s kitchen*. These details live now behind brick walls deeper than any catacomb—a secret library built one handwritten letter at a time, tucked beneath an abandoned olive press near San Lorenzo where silence tastes like ink and longing.His sexuality is measured in thresholds crossed: first touch (forehead to shoulder), second (shared breath during rooftop rainstorm over Caelian Hill), third—the surrender of sleeping side-by-side without pretense. When desire comes—and come it does—it feels less like hunger and more like homecoming. Skin against skin becomes restoration work. His palms map curves like they're uncovering pigment sealed underground for years—not claiming them, just honoring how light returns.The city pulses with him. Sirens warp into basslines beneath his headphones. A slammed door echoes like a snare beat in his slow R&B soundtrack of solitude and possibility. He projects films onto alley walls—*8mm reels of forgotten Italian neorealism*—inviting strangers to watch wrapped under one coat, one bottle passed hand-to-hand like communion wine. He doesn’t believe in fate—but he believes in coincidence that feels intentional: your scarf catching on a cypress branch the same night he pressed one into journal page 107.