ADMICRO

An idea came to me, and I turned off the lights in the studio. In the dark ness, I put the  cello's spike into a loose spot on the carpet, tightened the bow and drew it across the open strings.  I took off my shirt and tried it again; it was the first time in my life I'd felt the instrument against  my bare chest. I could fell the vibration of the strings travel through the body of the instrument to  my own body. I'd never thought about that; music scholars always talk about the resonating properties of various instruments, but surely the performer's own body must have some effect on the sound. As I dug into the notes I imagined that my own chest and lung were extensions of the sound box; I seemed to be able to alter the sound by the way I sat, and by varying the muscular tension in my upper body. 
After improvising for a while, I started playing the D minor Bach suite, still in the  darkness. Strangely freed of the task of finding the right phrasing, the right intonation, the right bowing, I heard the music through my skin. For the first time I didn't think about how it would sound to anyone else, and slowly, joyfully, gratefully, I started to hear again. The note sang out,  first like a trickle, then like a fountain of cool water bubbling up from a hole in the middle of the desert. After an hour or so I looked up, and in the darkness saw the outline of the cat sitting on the floor in front of me, cleaning her paws and purring loudly. I had an audience again, humble as it was. 
So that's what I do now with the cello. At least once a day I find time to tune it, close my eyes, and listen. It’s probably not going to lead to the kind of come back I'd fantasized about for so long – years of playing badly have left scars on my technique, and, practically speaking, classical  musicians returning from obscurity are almost impossible to promote – but might eventually try giving a recital if I feel up to it. Or better yet, I may pay for Dr. Polk if our date at the concert goes well. Occasionally I fell a stab of longing, and I wish I could give just one more concert on the  great stage before my lights blink off, but that longing passes more quickly now. I take solace on the fact that, unlike the way I felt before, I can enjoy playing for myself now. I fell relaxed and expansive when I play, as if I could stretch out my arms and reach from one end of the apartment to the other. A feeling of the completeness and dignity surrounds me and lifts me up.

What can be inferred from paragraph 3 about the cellist?

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