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Success was not something dazai was used to. He could do things again and again and yet. Despite being patient, despite wanting nothing more, nothing less, he never quite gets it.
Pulling at his knotted hair, he sits on the floor of the Agencies bathroom, an empty bottle of prescription pills laying on the ground next to him. He wonders, 'despite my efforts...' his pupils dilate. 'Despite all the attempts made...' His movements slow. 'Why can't I succeed?' His hands— fingers tangled in the mats in his unkempt hair— Fall to his lap.
There he lay, waiting for the moment that a member of the agency would discover him, cold and long gone. He coughs weakly, not bothering to wipe his chin of the blood now staining it. As he exhales a sigh, he prays its his last.