The strings on the mahogany violin, bowed by the man who has been wearing the tuxedo for concerts since his child-self's infatuation with the power of music.

Then the most ivory pure timbres to hush the most contentiously mind-blanking uproar set in. Bathed in the colors of oceans bearing traces of sand from the shores of the parent civilizations, a true voice emanating from a single most unassuming emissary from the vineyards of pathos. A figure the likes of the dancing maiden with flower tiara upon twirling curls, she yet stands still before - no, at the very graces of! - the audience that has found her, to listen to the soft words she has contemplated for a time beyond her own age. Yes, she stands like a child not alone, yet close as the earth to heaven as alone... alone but for the soul-searing strain that she gives to you at once from her eyes and kind lips and her singular radiance! She must be alone, but, BUT! - save the divine glide of fingers from an angelic body that she is outstretching to you. Save for the most affecting speech a soul as I could know, she stands apart. But, for all the wonder her music speaks, we are together. Afternoon glow to the soul, in the darkest reach of night.