The guns perched on the hills surrounding Sarajevo have dismantled him just as they have the OperaHall, just as they have his family home in the night while his father and mother slept, just as they will, eventually, everything.
When the mortars destroyed the Sarajevo OperaHall, the cellist felt as if he were inside the building, as if the bricks and glass that once bound the structure together had become projectiles that sliced and pounded into him, shredding him beyond recognition.