The high frequency— wood shifting, notes waltzing with melodic rhythm.  The wood, cold to the touch, full of hollow whispers. The empty shell breathes while at rest, yet also in play. It touches the long tired bow, sometimes demanding the unkempt sticky powder. Rosin.  Sometimes unworthy of the musician, otherwise too great. The noises either destroy or distract, filling the room with desire or distaste. In tune. Or, out of tune. The pegs determine all.  The difficulty to get the perfect pitch is a frustrating struggle. Sometimes blending in an ensemble is better than playing alone. However, when solo, there are no strings attached.