Wolfgang, wearing his customary silk pants low on his hips, has the violin tucked under his chin, eyes closed shut and eyebrows squeezed in concentration. A few strands of brown hair fall over his forehead as he plays with abandon, his torso swaying with the music, abs contracting with the movements as if the violin dictates what his body should do or go next. He looks … so unlike himself. Like a devotee kneeling at the steps of musical worship. As if the music itself has cracked through his perfect image to reveal something much, much deeper. As if his mask is missing. And all that is left
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