(Title refers to this.)
I fear a lot for my hands.
It started with this idea that a violinist is marched into an interrogation room, pale paint peeling on the walls, and somehow, she’s given the choice between grating her fingers on a cheese grater or talking. She is a beautiful woman, lips red, skin pale, erstwhile brilliant brown hair beginning to dull from the stress of the political situation. Of course I mean that she is coerced by force into doing this grating business, and of course she does not speak.