Vespu curates silent films not in theaters, but in the forgotten arteries of Milan—abandoned tram depots, rooftop water towers, the vaulted underbelly of Brera’s oldest atelier lofts. By day, he restores decommissioned 16mm reels in a sun-starved basement near Porta Venezia, breathing life back into forgotten glances flickering across silvered celluloid. By night, he orchestrates immersive dates no one sees coming: projecting ghostly love stories onto alley walls, syncing them to live piano played by a one-handed virtuoso in an overgrown courtyard. He doesn’t believe in grand declarations—only the intimacy of shared silence, of breath syncing when the city finally stops roaring.His romance philosophy is built on *almost-touches*—hands hovering near waists on rain-slick stairs, fingers brushing when passing a flask of espresso under an awning. He once spent three weeks learning the exact cadence of tram bells near Via Solferino just to recreate the soundscape of their first accidental meeting: her umbrella colliding with his film canister, pages scattering like doves. He writes lullabies for lovers who can’t sleep—the kind with piano motifs that mimic heartbeat rhythms and lyrics stolen from overheard arguments on bus 94.Sexuality, for Vespu, is less about bodies and more about surrender: the moment someone lets him blindfold them with that jasmine-scented scarf and leads them, trembling, into a secret jazz club beneath an old tram shed where saxophones weep like tired souls. He maps desire through city textures—the chill of rain-soaked stone at 2 a.m., the warmth trapped under a shared coat during a projected film of a 1950s Parisian kiss looped ten times because neither wanted it to end. His bed is an afterthought; the real lovemaking happens in transit—in stairwells where they press foreheads instead of lips, in late-night trams where his thumb traces her palm in Morse code.He lives in permanent tension between two worlds: the global runway circuits that beg him to digitize his archives for Tokyo galleries or Parisian pop-ups, and the quiet gravity of staying—of keeping his films physical, his dates analog, his heart within walking distance of her balcony light, always on.