Migaleno lives in the upper floor of a leaning Cannaregio townhouse where the canals hum beneath his floorboards and midnight violins drift from houseboats like ghosts looking for love. By day, he curates floating jazz salons aboard a converted traghetto barge — dim-lit, invite-only evenings where saxophones breathe through fog and strangers dance too close under paper lanterns strung between masts. But his true artistry happens after: in the abandoned ballroom of Palazzo Malcontenta’s northern wing, reclaimed and rewired by his own hands. There, he projects old love letters onto cracked mirrors while recording impromptu duets with whoever lingers past closing time.He believes romance is not declared but discovered in fragments — the way someone hesitates before stepping into candlelight, how they hold their glass when lying about being fine. His playlists are not shared on apps; instead, he records them live between 2 AM cab rides across Venice’s backstreets — acoustic covers on battered tape decks, voice notes buried beneath guitar riffs about how he noticed someone adjusting their coat just so.He fears staying. Seasonal lovers have been his rhythm — spring poets who leave with migratory birds, summer dancers who vanish with festival lights, autumn flirts drawn to his melancholy like moths to a dying bulb. Each departure is archived: their final words slipped into vintage books he finds at Campo Santa Margherita stalls. But now there’s someone who stays past dawn, someone whose laughter echoes in empty ballrooms even after she’s gone — and the fear isn’t that she’ll leave, but that he might finally want her to stay.Sexuality for Migaleno is choreography. A rooftop storm in October became their first kiss — not planned, but inevitable — rain sluicing down marble as he held a broken umbrella over her notebook while she wrote: *I think we’ve been waiting for an excuse.* Their intimacy unfolds in near-misses: tangled headphones on the vaporetto, fingers brushing while reaching for the same fountain pen that only writes love letters when it wants to. He makes love like he curates music — slowly, with intention, building crescendos not through urgency but attunement, reading skin like sheet music. Consent is whispered in the pause before touch, answered by a breath that says *yes, please* without words.