Within a Sky Full of Earth

Turgenev was holding the phone in his hand.
On the other side of the line, somewhere in the melancholic Barents Sea, Dostoevsky was catching a cold. There was no net, the bacterial waves were coming directly to his lungs. No pain, no evidence.
Long distance call.
- Do you accept this call? - Turgenev heard. He was waiting still. Breathing silently while holding his pencil with the other hand. The words were coming. Breathable. Just by having a phone on his hands he suddenly remembered to write about something very important. - I must hang up the phone! - he thought. But as things come, things go.
- It's me, Fyodor. Hey, I need your help. I was here...
- There? - Turgenev mumbled.
- Up in the North, it does not matter. What matter is...
- North? Where? - Turgenev knew by the noise in the background that he was on a boat...
- On a boat, down in the Barents Sea. Came fishing, didn't find anything. The fish are all gone. - That was Fyodor Dostoevsky.
- What do you want?
- I remembered something. WelI... I mean, I wanted to write this very important stuff. Something that just came to my mind and I cannot miss it. Don't have anything here, I was trying to seduce the fish with my notebook, then it fell over, into the water.
Turgenev was about to write his first word of the great idea he just had. - I have to hang up the phone! - He was getting nervous.
- Listen... - The sound on the Barents Sea is very strange, you can never forget it. It seems like you are far from everything and you have arrived at the end of the world. - Do you have a pen or a pencil and paper?
- Yes, but...
- OK. Write it down.

And then something amazing happened. The same thought, the same idea, the same sentences with every word on it, were just the same. Turgenev, as he was hearing, he was writing it down. But he was not listening. He just couldn't. His line was stronger than Dostoevsky's voice and he couldn't stop posting his own idea.
- Got it? - He heard from the boat. - Read it to me...
It seemed like a short dream. Equal to a minute nap, you sleep and you don't know why. When he woke up there he was with a text in his hands.
And Turgenev read it on the phone. The words were beautiful, he never wrote such a thing before. They crossed the world until its end and from the Barents Sea Dostoevsky replied:
- That's beautiful, I never wrote such a beautiful thing. Thank you! - And then he hung up.