Isen lives in the hush between bicycle bells and the first chord of a jazz standard drifting from an open cafe door. He designs furniture that lasts generations—modular tables that grow with families, chairs that cradle grief and laughter equally—but his true craft is shaping silence. In a city that prizes minimalism like scripture, he builds spaces where chaos is invited but not allowed to shout: a crooked bookshelf holding both technical schematics and dog-eared poetry collections, a kitchen always warm because someone might need tea at 2 a.m.He fell in love once with a woman who painted murals on condemned buildings under cover of fog and never signed her work. They met in a disused warehouse where he’d hidden a library behind salvaged oak panels—books salvaged from burned homes, love letters found in secondhand coat pockets, all cataloged by emotional tone instead of genre. She left a note in *The Waves* with coordinates inked inside a matchbook. He went to all of them.Now, his heart moves on train schedules—specifically the last M3 to Vanløse at 1:47 AM when the city exhales. That’s where he met someone new: a linguist who studies dialects disappearing from harbor-side fish markets. They talk until the train loops back downtown just to avoid saying goodbye. He plays her voice memos of lullabies written for people who’ve never slept beside him—he calls them *insomnia sonnets*. She sends playlists titled things like 'for when the rain sounds like regrets.'Desire for Isen lives in restraint—fingers hovering before brushing knuckles while passing coffee on wet platforms, the way he unzips his coat mid-sentence because he knows you’re cold even if you don’t say it. He kisses like someone rediscovering a language—slow, deliberate syllables—and believes the most erotic thing two people can do is reorganize their lives just to see each other more often. In a city of bicycles, efficiency is romance.