dutroncif a violin was a human, had endured the perils and tragedies, and trifles of a human, a real, real human girl, not a façade, that façade that many, many pop stars put on today — throwing vocals out of their lungs about heartbreak — without ever truly experiencing it by themselves. but this violin, has been worn, and torn, and damaged, by many men, and many of those men who are façades in the flesh, and yet, the strings of solitude, the melodies of melancholy, pour out of the veins of the violin and into her albums of l'anamour.
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