How long had he started painting? Only a few minutes ago, an hour, had he been there for the last hundred years, a ghost of memories past? Honestly he did not know and he didn't really care either, that was the troubling part. The people of the cafeteria came and went providing a semi present background noise that was dampened by his headphones. Some watched him work for a little bit having nothing better to do. But they all left eventually after finding out that most of what he did was stand there and just stare intently at a wall for long periods of time and occasionally take a drink of water before deliberately making one stroke and then the process repeated over and over again like clockwork. One might of pondered this process and its greater meaning and they might of seen something in how each of his small movements seemed to be slow and thought out, every crane of his neck, or slight sag of his shoulders as if everything was choreographed into some very interpretive dance. These observations might of held a bit of truth, but in reality Ueda was not thinking at the current moment he was just acting and reacting never thinking just doing. It was the main reason he stilled did the whole “art” thing it helped him forget. Forget that he was dying, forget all those that he had failed, forget that he was slowly destroying himself, forget everything and just focus on the idea that he was slowly giving birth to.

Eventually though he knew that he was not going to get anymore work done at that moment. So he slowly began to pack his supplies back up: neatly, methodically, in total contrast to a man that was anything but. He put all the paints and all the brushes into a duffle bag which he picked up slowly as to not over exert himself and looked once more at the mural. It was nothing you could call Art yet. It was just a few lines a few lines in which he did not have a purpose for yet. The idea, the purpose, the subject it all came later for now it was just an escape. He left the cafeteria at a slow gait and proceed across the grounds and back into the “main building” as it was. He thought about taking the the elevator, but decided against it and he progressed up them and went on his path knowing exactly where he was heading and yet took his time. Not a lot of people were around, it was the weekend and evidently everybody was out doing things, nobody wanted to be inside a place of academic prestige. This was not necessarily a bad thing though, he never liked crowds he prefered to be able to hear himself think. 

He eventually came to the art rooms and he entered. Of course they were empty not even Mr. Nomiya was still around. The sun as it slowly made its path towards setting sent small lazy beams through the window and all was peaceful. The smell of paint and clay was ever present in the room as he slowly brought the duffle bag down where he would be able to grab it again later. Unzipping it he brought out his brushes and walked over to the sink and turned it on and began to clean them. It was these routines that helped keep Ueda grounded to his reality. It prevented him from snapping inwardly and kept his thoughts in order. He had grown fond of the art room as he spent his years at the academy. The feel of the penecil shavings that have long been compressed together into a seemingly united layer over the floor, the tables rough with scratches and dried paint. It was all very peaceful and familiar to him. Eventually though he finished and left closing the door behind him. 

He walked around in silence until he eventually found himself without knowing in the self dubbed music wing. Which consisted really of only a small number of rooms that happened to have instruments in them. He had found himself a room that he had never seen before, tucked behind a corner and down the hallway right next to the dead end, the only other thing back there being a janitors closet. But for one reason or another he was drawn to the room and so he tried the door. And to his great relief it swung upon with relative ease. The room was about the size of all the other classrooms, for one big difference being the decor. It was mostly posters of music things: Scales, chords, instruments. Though most of them were at the current moment dropping or falling down, as if not just he had never seen this room but the school had forgotten about it. What drew his eye was actually near the back of the room in a corner. It was a Steinway Grand Piano. Not something that you found usually sitting in the music room of a high school. No they belonged in concert halls, or the homes of really rich people. But there it was sitting and beckoning to Ueda to go over. He played the piano for sometime when he was younger, as advised by his physical therapist to keep the strength in his fingers up to speed and he occasionally found himself drawn to playing something. But he had not played for a few months. But the idea of playing such a beautiful instrument was more than he could just sit by and let go at the moment.

And so that was what he did sitting down and brushing a layer of dust that had formed over it as he opened it. He experimentally played a few notes and to his surprise they rang out clear as day. And then he closed his eyes trying to remember a time when he was little. Sitting on his father’s lap as he played on their own little piano nothing as grand as this, but it got the job done. Those were happier memories and he did not get a lot of those. But he prefered not to think about that because if he did for too long he was going to have to distance himself from the world in one way or another and he still needed to pay Toke a visit, so he did not want to use up his dwindling supply. So instead, he give himself another distraction and he began to play and without really deciding on what he was doing, [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Wd--YgSCfA]he began to play one of the songs his father used to play.[/url] Separating himself from the world as he went along.