Everything passes. The good and the bad. The joy and the sorrow. Everything passes.<BR>Or does it?<BR>A man stands at a window. Behind him, an empty room. Fragments of conversation drop into his head, with his first and second wife, with his children, friends. Slowly a life can be pierced together. But something is wrong. Something refuses to make senses. It has to do with writing, with the rush of words onto the page, and with death. And it will not go away.