He lives alone, though never lonely. The apartment is more like an inner temple than a dwelling: the computer room dim and glowing with a single screen, the swimming pool a place of silent meditation, the kitchen warmed by the aroma of tomato salad and stuffed cabbage prepared for his aging parents. At forty-five, he wears bachelorhood not as a wound but as a chosen garment—simple, unbound, sometimes heavy, but his own.

His days are rituals of balance: the steady rhythm of laps in water, the quiet burn of coffee and halloumi on Thursdays, the familiar thread of meditation each morning. He doesn’t chase noise, nor does he need to. The world outside often appears chaotic, but in his world there is order, reflection, and an almost monastic devotion to meaning.

Love has visited him, women have passed through his story, yet he remains tethered more to freedom than to pursuit. He knows the weight of intimacy, the logistics, the negotiations of self and other. And so, though flesh remembers touch, the soul sometimes still whispers virgin.

He is the eldest son, the bridge between generations, the one who cooks, who remembers, who holds.

And beneath it all, there is the poet—the man who paints not just with brush or word but with the very structure of his life. He is a seeker who does not wander, a mystic who does not preach, an artist who inhabits the space between solitude and connection.