The end of one term and the start of another could be seen as a double barline, he thought, so perhaps in this piece he should separate each term in that way.
Mozart had lost a bet to Tchaikovsky that he'd made while drunk. And now all he had to do to be allowed to touch a piano around others again was to write a piece about his time at this school.
He swore not drink this much around that damned Tchaikovsky again. The withdrawal from the music was killing him. He'd learnt his lesson.
For this month at least.