"Tones of gray and sepia color the music of the cello..." a scene of one sitting, quietly watching poison drip into "the body and breast" of a loved one undergoing chemotherapy. When Bruce read this to me, my impulse was to turn away from the thought, unable to conceive of this treatment being worthy of musical accompaniment, let alone poetic depiction.
The image of the cello stuck in my mind however. We shared a visit to an Atlanta Symphony rehearsal where I fixed the image into a sketch. If you look carefully, you see this cello has no strings. The music had ended.