by Nico Laeser
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An old man with a violin, lame from a work injury and left to survive by the skill of his hands. To the ear, a modern day Paganini; to the masters of society, a grotesquery upon the streets. His ability to earn by daylight, stolen by the taste-makers. His choice and ability to earn by twilight fuelled and facilitated by the very same. His tool by day, a violinist’s bow. His tool by night, a flat bar of steel to pry open the upper-class’ windows. He would lose his life for his crimes. May he rest in peace.