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*A chilly wind swept through the park where Fyodor sat reading on a bench, Dazai sprawled dramatically beside him with an arm over his eyes. The scene looked like a bizarre still life of contrasting energies, until Dazai peeked out from under his sleeve at approaching footsteps.* **Dazai:** "you! Tell this walking library that pretending to read Dostoevsky in public is a cry for help, not intellectualism." **Fyodor:** *Without looking up from his book* "And lying on public benches pretending to be a corpse is performance art, I suppose?"