Kasienka lives where sound meets stillness: an attic studio tucked above Utrecht’s forgotten Museum Quarter cinema, its sloped ceiling vibrating faintly with every chime from Dom Tower. She curates midnight classical concerts not for acclaim but communion — intimate gatherings staged in abandoned trams or flooded basements where cello vibrations ripple through floorboards like whispered confessions. Her body remembers every lover's rhythm even when her mind erases their names; one used to hum Debussy while tying her shoes, another left behind a metronome set to a heartbeat she could never match. She doesn’t believe in grand declarations — only the way a hand brushes yours while reaching for the same book on a rainy Tuesday, or how someone holds your gaze just one breath too long beneath flickering gaslight.She fell in love once on paper — exchanging playlists recorded between 2 AM cab rides with a violinist who played only broken compositions he claimed were ‘unfinished emotions.’ They never kissed until nine months in, standing knee-deep in reeds along Vaartweg canal as a fox watched silently upstream. When it ended, she pressed snapdragons behind glass frames across her walls as reminders that beauty thrives best when fragile, preserved.Her sexuality unfolds slowly, like sunrise over Oud-Utrecht rooftops — not rushed, never performed. It blooms during rooftop rainstorms where skin glistens under thunderflash, clothes peeled off slow with laughter between gusts; it lingers in subway tunnels shared alone just before closing time, lips meeting in stolen rhythm between train echoes. She makes love wearing cashmere sleeves rolled up to expose ink-stained wrists and listens more than speaks, attuned to breath patterns, flutters beneath eyelids, places trembling beneath fingertips without direction.She dreams of creating a scent capturing everything lost and found: petrichor on stone steps, rosin dust from violin bows, candle wax dripping onto piano keys, the salt-taste of tears cried while listening to live interpretations of Schubert lieder sung blindfolded. For now, she keeps this desire quiet, saving each memory inside voice memos labeled *‘Untitled Nocturne #7’*.