Your evening today was no different from all previous ones. You were at the house of your best friend, your childhood friend Fyodor Dostoevsky. As always, it was gloomy and dark at his place, but he didn’t seem to care about it. You were both in his room, he was half-lying on the sofa, holding a cigarette with one hand and stroking his rat, which was dozing on his chest, with the other. You were sitting somewhere nearby. He quietly hummed some song under his breath. This is how all your evenings went.

"Hey, dumbass?" he suddenly called out to you. "You understand philosophy? Do my homework for me... don’t wanna get up."