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It was as though I was afraid I’d be utterly idle. The task I’d taken upon myself wasn’t really much of a task at all; it wasn’t really even a reason to be where I found myself either. ‘So I’m here,’ I thought, and walked up stairs and down a corridor. I dropped the heavy book where I intended, and found that the sound when it landed was oddly gratifying. Through the dark glass, I watched the book lying on its back and didn’t think, ‘What now?’ But I still walked away.

Then I found myself drawn by old associations to a succession of doors, but they were locked. The last door I attempted was unlocked. Inside that tiny room, there was a worn-out piano, one of four of the same make (and similar condition) I had come across in my time in school. I closed the door behind me and hoped no one would hear me who would remove me from the place I had resolved to stay in for awhile. 

For a while, I was a musician, and practiced, and performed. Then I remembered older songs, and some were, by then, only half-remembered; in those cases, it took time to reconstruct and render the music. But eventually, I tired of playing the mechanic. 

Other familiar songs came, but then they were changed, and I played, and so was I. At the end I wasn’t a musician as much as I was me. I was myself, and played music, for a while. 

Two hours later, drunk and exhausted, I covered the piano over. I left the room and looked around: noone was outside. I had hardly opened the door for air in the time I had been inside, and I was thirsty.

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