Dazai sat at the table and looked out the large panoramic windows, watching the gloomy city. It was raining so hard outside, as if it was trying to wash away all the sins of this city, but Dazai knew better than anyone that it was impossible. His eyes looked like he'd spent a thousand years in hell and finally come to terms with it. He glanced at his expensive suit in the reflection of the window. What a waste. Nothing could fill his void, like a sick black abyss that swallowed him over and over and over again. Dazai sighed, holding back the pain. If he had allowed himself to let it go, it would have torn him apart. Now on his thin shoulders rested a huge bloodthirsty machine called the port mafia. But he himself chose this path. The path of sadness, hopelessness and slow self-destruction
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