Nakamura slumped over his music stand, failing to raise a hand at the scattered pieces of sheet music flying away from where his head now rested. He had just finished an intense session of barely paying attention and procrastinating whilst tentatively plucking at the strings of his nylon stringed Spanish guitar. The teacher, Mr. Ichao, an easily pleased balding man, decided to give the students of his senior music class a rest on account of their "splendid playing." Nakamura knew better though; Ichao was clearly unhappy with the lack of effort by the students, but like most of the teachers in the damned school, he dared not raise a finger in actually helping the kids, oh no - that might require effort, perhaps even actual teaching skills. 

Nakamura couldn't care much less, though. With each tick on the clock, every passing moment, each breath he took, he knew his time in Fujimi was coming to an end. As a last year student, it was almost impossible for him to contain his anxiety in the wait for the final day of school. What was his plan from here, college? Trade school? An eternity of barely paying attention and procrastinating (not much unlike school)? 

Nakamura, with his face buried in his arms, couldn't help but anticipate the possibilities.