Miren lives in a botanist’s flat tucked above a shuttered apothecary in De Pijp, where dried garlands drape like ivy across ceiling beams and bicycles bloom with seasonal arrangements—tulip stems woven through handlebars in spring, frost-kissed eucalyptus in winter. He doesn’t sell flowers—he *stages* them: crafting mobile installations on cargo bikes that drift through Amsterdam’s canals and cobblestones like floating altars to forgotten emotions. His clients never know they’ve been curated; strangers find themselves stepping into moments—a cluster of snowdrops left on their stoop after heartbreak, or marigolds strung across a bridge where someone once almost confessed love.Above his flat, hidden behind a bookshelf that pivots with the right pressure on Rilke's *Letters to a Young Poet*, lies his attic speakeasy—low-lit, warm-wooded, filled with records spinning quietly under dust motes. Here, he mixes cocktails that don’t have names but meanings: one tastes exactly like the pause before saying I love you for the first time; another carries the sharp tang of almost kissing someone at 3 AM and walking away. He believes desire should be layered—not rushed—and that true intimacy blooms best when it’s coaxed into being through scent, shadow, and synesthesia.His sexuality is a slow burn—lived in textures: fingertips brushing wrists while passing drinks, shared breath inside one oversized coat during projected film nights on damp brick alleys, whispered confessions exchanged under flickering streetlights. He doesn’t rush skin—he maps it like territory reclaimed from solitude. A lover once described being with him as *remembering a language they’d never learned*. He presses every meaningful petal into journal pages dated in moon phases—not because he fears forgetting, but to measure how tenderness accumulates.The city is his collaborator. Rain becomes rhythm; fog turns flirtation into art; neon signs pulse like involuntary heartbeats behind closed eyelids. For years, Miren refused romance as compromise—certain that love demanded surrender of self—but now he wonders if connection might instead be an expansion. That perhaps opening up isn't falling inward—but flowering outward.