The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

had in the cab that had brought him to the station. He
had asked the driver to hurry, and they had taken the
expressway from West Kanda. An early-summer
drizzle had been falling, he could not have said for
how long. They made their way through the rows of
banks and brokerages at fifty miles an hour. Huge,
solid, the buildings spread great wings of steel and
glass. Honda said to himself: “The moment I die they
will all go.” The thought came to him as a happy one,
a sort of revenge. It would be no trouble at all, tearing
this world up by the roots and returning it to the void.
All he had to do was die. He took a certain minor
pride in the thought that an old man who would be
forgotten still had in death this incomparably
destructive weapon. For him the five signs of decay
held no fear.