Dostoevsky's Grocery Epiphany

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.