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“Of course, certain external circumstances are impossible to predict. ... For instance: Will our country last? Its predecessor, with all its might, was more short-lived than your average violin, for which seventy years is nothing, a piffling age: seventy-year-old violins look virtually brand-new; they have no cracks to speak of; sometimes luthiers have to imitate wear and tear. As it currently stands, it doesn't appear that this country, successor to the one in which Leva and Yasha and Katya and Dodik grew up, has a long life in store: it'll fall apart, disintegrate, too many cracks to count. But then again, that may not come to pass. We shouldn't look to contrive an outcome—let that story run its own course. ... However, there is one thing of which we are certain. Bows will still be wound in silver wire or whalebone; ebony frogs will still be inlaid with mother-of-pearl eyes; and childen's violins—one-quarter size, one-eighth size—will still bear delicate trails of salt, the salt of tears from children, who cry as they play, not stopping, not ending their music.”
― Maxim Osipov, Rock, Paper, Scissors: And Other Stories