While he's pouring one too many drinks, hovering in the airless loop of his apartment to savor every bit of his misery, and pinching his bruised heart whenever memories flood forward, he's chronically blocked from writing his next novel. He hates taking the path most trodden. Overanalyzing everything as if it's a scientific experiment - too proud to take advice or to grow up. But he can't help himself. Tempted with second chances but reluctant to reach out from his cocoon, will he ever get over himself, shed this façade of dissatisfied dread, and recover an authentic life?