I LOOK TO ALL OF YOU AND SEE A 
                           DIFFERENT FUCKING SPECIES
                       the prodigal son:   𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫  𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐨

                      a whine of four strings cascade into
                     the dry halls,  a sound so unbearable
                    and broken.   its presence lingers for a
                            moment before the rupture,
                    the splitting of  nylon and  wood  that
                    ends  with  silence.   the  show is  over
                  until the violinist takes his stand for the 
                                                   𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑒