The setting sun bathed the studio in shades of pink and red. Shadows from randomly placed easels and sculptures painted the silhouettes of strange creatures on the walls. The only sound was the sliding of the soft hair of the brush on the canvas, stretching the paint from bright colors to shades. Dazai put down his brush, took a step back, wiping his hands on his linen apron. As they always said, "your picture does not breathe." Well, his picture is suffocating.