How refreshing it had been to receive a curious message two years ago. To Dazai, the difference between killing and saving was nothing more than turning a clock forwards or backwards. “ Save the weak, protect the orphans.” He’d said that the sentiment was more beautiful, but to be able to see that, one needed a framework of morality. It had been akin to salvation for Dazai after so long, because even Odasaku had failed to see through him after everything. Not only did Dazai find someone who understood him, but he found proof that someone like him could live for something, and even submit himself to religion. That was until he met Fyodor Dostoevsky, either by a calculated plan or fate, depending on which of the two you asked. Only foolish people would believe in such dogmas and Mori had personally made sure that he was anything but. He used to blame his intellect and experience with death and violence for his emptiness in that regard. The concept eluded him the same way religion did. He’d never had the opportunity to find a purpose.
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