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Summary
Dazai can’t explain it. He has never been able to explain it. He had to be taught how to live, even though seeking his own demise is as natural as breathing.
It is always there, the slow thrum of death, the quiet echo of nothing. It’s nonsensical, contradictory, heretical—don’t touch me, never stop touching me—as everything surrounding him has always been. I love you, I hate you. Kill me, save me.
