Dostoyevsky sat at his desk, in a room dimly illuminated by a singular lit candle. It was late at night. He was hunched over, a quill in his left hand. The sheet of paper was filled with messy letters and a couple of ink stains. It was no surprise he was dyslexic, though it didn’t stop him from writing. A cup of coffee, halfway drank was placed beside him, and was probably one of the only things keeping him awake right now. Did he even eat today?..