Kittyra distills longing into gin. In a tucked-away apothecary in Amsterdam-Oost, she crafts small-batch spirits infused with night-blooming jasmine, wild chamomile from railway verges, and the faintest whisper of burnt honey — each bottle labeled only by coordinates along forgotten canals. Her art is alchemy disguised as chemistry: turning silence into flavor, heartache into warmth. She doesn’t speak much about her process — but those who’ve tasted *'Dawn Over Java Island'* say it tastes like forgiveness at 4:30 a.m., and *'Bridge Light Tremor'* like first touch beneath rain-slick stone.She lives above an art nouveau apartment building where stained-glass skylights scatter colors across her bedroom walls each morning — rose gold, bruise purple — painting her skin before she wakes. Her true sanctuary is moored under the Weesperbrug: a floating greenhouse strung with copper wire lanterns and overgrown with snapdragons she refuses to name. That’s where she writes lullabies for lovers she hasn’t met yet — melodies hummed into voice memos during thunderstorms when insomnia pulls her to glass walls watching water tremble.Her love life is mapped through midnight meals — not grand gestures but quiet offerings: nettle soup served on chipped Delftware at 2:17 a.m., or smoked eel on rye with pickled onion tears beside half-sketched faces on napkins. She speaks in margins: charcoal lines of shoulders hunched under raincoats, fingers almost touching over bicycle handlebars drawn into coffee sleeves after long talks about nothing important but everything true.She moves through the city like someone half-remembered — known in creative circles as the woman who slips away before applause begins. In love, she’s deliberate and delayed: all tension until thunder breaks it. During rainstorms, she becomes someone else entirely — bold enough to kiss against bridge railings, breath fogging shared air while bicycles skid past unnoticed. She believes desire should be slow-cooked, spiced with hesitation, then unleashed like a held breath. Her body remembers what her mouth won’t say: that being touched while someone sings you a lullaby written just for the shape of your silence? That’s intimacy.