The coin glistened in the sun, clutched between long fingers. 1835, so it will cost a lot. But this time, Dazai had a bad catch. He was still hunting for a specific painting, but taking it out was not easy. He hadn't been so stressed for a long time. His work is always a run on the edge of a knife, which only fueled enthusiasm and adrenaline. A kind of adventurous spirit . Dazai put the coin down in a pile of exactly the same ones and pushed himself off the floor, the a chair on wheels spinning him around. A kaleidoscope of goods flashed before my eyes - paintings, antique tools, Victorian crockery and jewelry, old rare editions of books. By the way. He stood up quickly, almost tripping, and headed for a particular book. Robert Frost Collector's Edition. It needed to be hidden from the excessive sun that flooded the warehouse that Dazai bought on the top floor of the skyscraper. He worked, kept goods and lived here. But he was not a fool, he really loved what he did, even if it was illegal. So many times his fingers actually touched material history that was only accessible to others in museums under glass. And he had access to it. And it was addictive.