In an urban crowded city full of strangers separated by miles of distance between each other, clouded within their own worlds, only Nick seemed to understand me. His house has an extra empty bedroom, full of colors, yet lacking in the color that would signal that life exists in this room - I live in that room now. Nick is writing a book about his life experiences under the guise of fiction, and I am helping him write as I check for grammar and improve his word choice to make it seem more vivid.

From his writing, I learned that he also served in the army once. He worked and still works at Wall Street. He despises the ultra-wealthy, especially their decadence, yet he looked up to one wealthy person with an inextinguishable American Dream: Jay Gatsby. Gatsby chased Nick’s Cousin, Daisy, who is the wife of an ultra-wealthy. She is a dangerous flower, and a whole affair that I could relate to, happened and culminated in the murder of Gatsby. His house, now empty and “haunted with ghosts” is next to Nick's house in West Egg, New York. Across the water is the former Buchanan’s mansion, now as empty and ghostly as Gatsby’s mansion. It is a tragic story.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I think Nick could understand my story when I told him my experience in the Great War. Gatsby and Nick also served in the war, although less extensive than my tours of service. Nick does not seem too bothered by the blood on my hand after the war. He became less shaken up by mere words after Gatsby was shot to death in his own mansion, waiting for a phone call from Daisy. Nick was within the epicenter of those aloof rich men’s activities, yet he was left without - both “within and without.” I can relate to that. Also, Nick too thinks I lied about my age when I told him I am fifty-one years old. True that I kept my body healthy and stayed away from alcohol (which Nick agrees with as he told me his account when he got drunk), but Nick now just assumes my age, even when I can accurately relay what happened in the 1880s.

Life takes you places. Merely a few years ago, I dreamed of fixing American society and publishing muckraking articles. Now I am helping to write and publish fiction. I wonder how this book, named “Gatsby”, will do on the market.