I sit there absent-mindedly. A lone person says something to me, smiling. How fearful! What’ll I do? My heart beats widly. Even just the thought of it makes me shudder as if I had cold water poured downy my back, and my breath chokes. Nevertheless, I still wait for someone. Who on earth am I waiting for, sitting here everyday? For what sort of person? Maybe what I’m waiting for isn’t even a human. I dislike humans. No, I fear them. When I meet someone and indifferently exchange such greetings as ‘How are you?’ or ‘It’s become cold’, greetings I don’t want to make, I somehow get the unpleasent feeling that there is no such horrible liar in the world as I, and I wish I were dead. Also, the other people, too, are unduly wary of me and use diplomatic speech which tries very hard to be harmless and inoffensive, and relate their pompoues, false feelings. As I listen to it all, I find their petty cautiousness deplorable, and the world becomes more and more unbearably odious.
― Waiting, Osamu Dazai