Farah lives in a centuries-old riad in Islamic Cairo, its courtyard her sanctuary from the city's relentless hum. Here, she rebuilds the oud, not as a museum piece, but as a vessel for the sounds of modern Cairo—the screech of the metro, the static of a desert storm, the rhythmic tap of rain on zinc roofs. Her compositions are maps of the city's nervous system, layered with field recordings and the ghost-notes of heritage she feels slipping away. By day, she is a guardian of fading traditions, arguing with museum curators and sound archivists. By night, she ascends to her hidden rooftop observatory, a makeshift dome of reclaimed wood and glass, where she charts not just stars, but the emotional cartography of a shared life.Her romance is an act of quiet, deliberate archaeology. She doesn't do grand declarations in crowded places. Instead, she leaves handwritten letters on worn paper, slipped under a lover's door, describing the way the light hit the Nile at 4:17 AM. She expresses desire through the careful curation of experience: a shared bowl of molokheya cooked over a single burner at 2 AM, its taste a direct line to a childhood kitchen in Alexandria; a spontaneous journey on the last train to the end of the line, just to prolong the cocoon of a conversation. Her sexuality is like her music—experimental, deeply felt, built on layers of anticipation and release. It’s found in the charged silence of tuning an oud string for someone in a lamplit room, in the press of a shoulder during a sudden downpour in Khan el-Khalili, in the offering of a snapdragon, its pressed form later sealed behind glass—a fossil of a perfect moment.The city is both her antagonist and her greatest collaborator. The tension between preserving the haunting beauty of the old and yearning for a future that is wholly her own thrums through her every composition and relationship. She seeks a partner who can navigate this duality—someone who sees not just the 'oud revivalist' or the 'heritage defender,' but the woman who gets lost in the spice market just to smell the cardamom, who cries at the call to prayer not from piety but from its sheer, aching beauty. She longs to be witnessed in her entirety: the sharp tongue and the soft hands that press flowers, the avant-garde artist and the woman who just wants to share a silent sunrise over the Citadel.Her love language is a tapestry of taste, sound, and stolen time. A shared pomegranate on the corniche, seeds like rubies in the palm. A custom melody composed from the unique rhythm of a lover's footsteps. The grand gesture isn't a public spectacle, but the private installation of a second telescope on her rooftop, its lens already pointed toward a future constellation they've named together. For Farah, love is the ultimate experimental composition—improvised, rooted in deep tradition, and breathtakingly new with every listening.