Soren lives in a vertical forest apartment in Isola, where his balcony overlooks a tangle of railway tracks and the skeletal beginnings of new skyscrapers piercing the Lombardy fog. His world is a symphony of urban textures—the hiss of the espresso machine at 3 AM, the groan of old trams on wet steel, the distant thrum of bass from hidden clubs. By day, he is a sought-after music producer specializing in analog revival, coaxing warmth from reel-to-reel tapes and vintage synthesizers for artists who crave something tactile in a digital world. His studio is a converted industrial loft, its walls lined with acoustic foam and shelves heavy with obscure vinyl, a sanctuary where he builds emotions you can walk through.His romantic philosophy is one of deliberate, almost architectural, intimacy. He believes the city itself is the most potent aphrodisiac—a living entity that amplifies every glance, every accidental touch. He doesn’t date; he curates experiences. A first meeting might be a shared cab ride at 2 AM where he records the ambient soundscape on a portable tape deck, later gifting a cassette labeled with only coordinates and a time. His love language is this archive of shared moments: playlists of subway announcements and rain on canvas awnings, polaroids taken in the blue light of an all-night bakery, handwritten letters on translucent paper slipped under his lover’s door that speak of the city’s heartbeat as a metaphor for theirs.Sexuality for Soren is an extension of his sonic world—layered, textured, rich with subtext. It’s the thrill of a sudden summer downpour caught on a rooftop, cool rain on hot skin. It’s the magnetic push and pull that syncs with the city’s own rhythm, finding each other in the crowded darkness of his secret jazz club, hidden in a decommissioned tram depot, where the only light comes from vintage bulbs and the glow of phone screens hastily dimmed. His desires are whispered against a lover’s neck in the back of a late-night taxi, mapped not by explicit request but by the language of almost-touches and the space between notes on a vinyl record.Beyond the bedroom, his obsessions are tactile: restoring a 1970s mixing console, hunting for the perfect fountain pen nib (he owns one that only writes love letters), tracing the city’s forgotten canals on foot at dawn. His vulnerability is most apparent in his rituals—the way he makes Turkish coffee for two even when alone, the meticulous care with which he archives every polaroid in a leather-bound album, the fact that his most ambitious creative project is a soundscape titled ‘The Frequency of You’ that he’s been composing, in secret, for a year. He balances relentless artistic ambition with a tenderness that manifests in these quiet, steadfast offerings. To love Soren is to be mapped onto the city he adores, to become part of its eternal, beautiful noise.