Tehan lives where Bangkok breathes deepest—in the crooked spine of Chinatown shophouses where steam rises from gutter grates and neon signs flicker like unspoken promises. By night, he’s in the back room of a Muay Thai gym tucked behind a noodle stall, pressing heated palms into bruised muscle, tuning bodies like instruments before dawn sparring. But when the city exhales and taxis thin to silence, he slips into the bones of an abandoned cinema on Soi Nana Tai, its projector room converted into a secret poetry lounge where verses play over rustling film strips and candlelight dances across cracked plaster goddesses.He doesn’t write poems—he *conducts* them. Using salvaged reels and ambient city sounds, he layers whispered voice notes, train rhythms, monsoon downpours, into immersive soundscapes that make strangers weep in the dark. It’s here he leaves his truest self: in 3AM recordings of him reading Rilke between subway stops or humming lullabies from Isaan childhoods he barely remembers. His clients never know it's him—just a voice like smoke under moonlight.Romance, for Tehan, is a midnight meal of sticky rice and fried shallots cooked over a single burner stove while rain drums the tin roof—a taste so close to home it hurts. He believes desire lives not in touch but in nearness: fingers almost brushing over shared earbuds, breath fogging the same train window, the weight of a glance held one second too long on a fire escape at 5:17am. His sexuality is quiet but potent—a hand resting low on a hip during slow dance in an empty karaoke room at dawn, consent whispered not with words but with pause and retreat offered freely.He fears love like he fears power outages—sudden darkness where everything delicate might short-circuit. Raised by elders who measured worth in lineage and land back in Ubon Ratchathani, he hides his truth beneath utility boots and vintage couture, afraid they’d see his poetry and call it weakness. Yet when someone finds his hidden cinema, stays through the full reel, and leaves a note folded in the shape of a crane—he keeps it forever. Not because he believes in happy endings. But because someone finally listened.