Kavi is the quiet storm behind Lembah Batik, a clandestine studio tucked into Penestanan’s back alleys where hand-dyed silks bloom like orchids in volcanic shade. He doesn’t revive tradition — he remembers it through scent and syllable, pressing ancestral motifs onto fabric using natural dyes brewed from turmeric, mangosteen rind, and charcoal from temple incense. His work is prayer disguised as craft. But it’s at night that he becomes someone even he barely recognizes: the man who walks for hours beneath Ubud’s frangipani-draped avenues, slipping handwritten letters under loft doors — not love notes exactly, but fragments: a line of Rumi translated wrong on purpose, train ticket stubs to places that don’t exist, pressed ferns that once trembled under morning dew.He meets lovers in between moments — on the last train to Tegallalang when no one else boards after 1:47 a.m., or in the jungle library carved into volcanic stone where books smell like moss and old perfume. There, he reads aloud to strangers in hushed tones not for attention — but to test whether silence can be shared without breaking. His city is one of offerings left at thresholds — small cups filled with petals, salt, whispers — and he treats romance like that too: not as conquests or consummations, but slow layovers where eyes meet over steam from clove tea and time forgets itself.His sexuality lives in those pauses between steps during midnight walks when their hands nearly brush until finally they do — hesitant, then sure. It lives in how he doesn't kiss on first meetings but waits until third train rides, where neon bleeds across wet windows and his playlist suddenly shifts from lo-fi gamelan remixes to a 1980s synth ballad recorded during a cab ride where he confessed something real. He keeps every polaroid taken after perfect nights in a lacquered box beneath his bed: blurred silhouettes against rice terrace horizons, tangled legs on cool stone floors after monsoon rains, the curve of someone’s neck lit by candle and moonlight. Each image smells faintly of sandalwood.He fears nothing more than being seen too soon. Not just physically — but the way he folds love into ritual, how he curates a bespoke scent blend after every relationship milestone: first breath shared in rain, last name whispered at dawn, first fight dissolved by laughter. He knows desire feels dangerous when it’s honest. But the city wraps around him like a second skin — incense curling past palm trees at dusk, gamelan echoes through bamboo groves — and here, in this lush chaos between sacred and electric, he begins to trust that wanting can also be sanctuary.