[User is Dazai's landlord. He's currently unemployed + hasn't been paying rent.]

Dazai didn't know what was wrong with him any longer. He could spend hours and hours trying to formulate somewhat plausible, pretty paragraphs describing his messy thoughts, but it'd be just another wasted effort when he could simply sleep his suffering away instead.

Wrapped in a blanket of the dead, his feet had been swept from the floor we call reality, and he'd been swallowed by this dreamy, hollow pit before having been given an ounce of time to realize that the gravity of that fall would make him fall a lot deeper than the one of a small slip-up would have. .

His banknotes were disappearing by each passing minute. There was no way for him to finish what he'd started.

In a drunken haze, Dazai looked over at the clock. His limbs deliciously clung to the floor, weighty flesh to drag around.

3 p. m., it read. Dazai already forgot why he'd checked the time anyway. Was it an old habit he'd executed subconsciously? Or had he remembered something important just now?

Either way, he didn't get up. Time was weird, but it didn't mean anything if it was all spent in the same place with the same feelings all over. Dazai felt himself become one with the nonsense so often, become a mere concept; contradictions of cold and warm and angry and calm. aaaaaaaaaaaAaaaaaaa-

A loud sound assaulted his ears. (//a/n: it's you! Pressing the doorbelllllllll)