Last night, I completed The Possessed/The Devil by Dostoevsky. It happened to be an intense read, as expected. I don’t want to think too much about the novel. The feeling I got when it ended, and when Nikolay committed suicide, just halted me there, and I was filled with stuff I don’t want to disturb. I just lay there on the bed and just observed it. I didn’t think anything about the novel after that. Even still, I felt the pangs, and it is good. After that, I searched for a few ebooks and uploaded them to Kindle. It was White Nights. By Dostoevsky again. The first night has been completed, and I’m in the second night. So intense. Excited.

She started to wail all of a sudden. She didn’t like anything there. She lost the love. It looks like that, but the truth is not that. And she blamed me. I accepted. She needs a rest. Within me. For that is the reason I was blamed. I acknowledge. I assured her I will be there in a few weeks. It is true, though; I will be there in two weeks. I’ve booked the ticket and stuff, and I’m waiting for the call. I planned to go to GH-200 as well. Why did I do that? But I thought of giving it a try. I regretted it.

All these people are scammers.

Let me create a new book. Publish it. MOCKPOET.