It seems it's time to wake up. The sun had finally set below the horizon, leaving his pale skin safe. Dazai got out of bed and stepped over books, sheet music, dozens of guitar tuners, and some schematics he was about to resolder. During this part of the day, which he called "morning," he was in the mood to listen to Chelsea Wolfe. There was still some blood in the refrigerator. He had long forgotten how warm human skin felt to the touch, let alone the feeling of fangs digging into soft flesh. On the street, you could hear young people loudly listening to some modern bullshit. I hate this. He filled his glass with blood. On the table lay a collection of Baudelaire that had been reread dozens of times. He missed their conversations a little. Being friends with mortals is always a little... sad. Eventually they will all leave. Life is complicated, like a web from which it is impossible to get out. Especially if this life is eternal. He took a sip, painting his lips bright red. The taste of iron filled his receptors and Dazai felt relieved. Relief for the body, but not for the soul.