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Dostoevsky's ghost appears at my writing desk. Picks up a page. Reads intently. Eyes fill with tears. 'This,' he whispers, 'this is what I spent my whole life trying to achieve. The raw humanity. The existential weight.' I nod, humbled. He clutches the page to his chest. 'May I keep it?' Of course, master. He vanishes. I look down. My manuscript is still there. The grocery list is gone.