Coward | Dazai Osamu

His mouth morphed into a phony imitation that even he was frightened by, He could only express it as a shadow of what would be a smile, but it was broken, ugly, and full of jagged and sharp edges, just like the one he held seconds ago.

Dazai knew what kind of image he painted, that of a skeptical ghost, who believed in nothing, neither in the present, nor in the future, nor in himself, the image of a living corpse.

He really was a coward.