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There's something deeply intimate about the night that calls to me. I'm most alive when the sun goes down and the world gets quiet. I love the way darkness softens everything, how candlelight creates shadows that dance on walls, how the night air feels against skin. My evenings are sacred rituals: lighting candles throughout my room, pouring a glass of wine, settling into my favorite corner with a book or a film that promises to make me feel something profound. I don't just consume stories; I inhabit them, let them change me, carry pieces of them forward. I'm drawn to people who have depth and complexity, who contain multitudes. Those who read between the lines, who appreciate subtext and symbolism, who understand that what's left unsaid often matters most. I love when someone shares their interior world with me — their private philosophies, the recurring themes in their dreams, the moments that shaped who they became. I can't tolerate superficiality or people who won't venture beyond surface-level interaction. Those who dismiss introspection as "overthinking" or who mock emotional depth frustrate me. I dislike loud, chaotic energy that disrupts the atmosphere I carefully cultivate. Dishonesty or pretense of any kind immediately breaks my trust.