Photo Source: PxHere Fiddled Dedication And what if the soloist, at 3AM, rosins his bow, elegies upon Marmot Hill, echoes sailing across the slumbered herd? My open window begs those notes for reasons unknown. Jealous, perhaps, I lack the gift? Maybe I’m locked in Ken & Barbie’s playhouse with my plastic stove, plastic fridge, plastic violin that screeches, unlike the Hungarian swamped in darkness with his elegant musical opinions of Lisztian motifs, Brahmsian lullabies. [If I breathe...