Alfie Zimmer loves his wife but doesn't tell her anymore, and he hates his job but doesn't tell it either. Toilets, vulgar graffiti: real poems to him, and a notebook to list it. To never forget it. So one night, he books a room in a motel, down the hall, on the ground floor, not to sleep in it, but to die in it. The gun on the chin, a crazy idea cross his mind: what if he published his book? What if he does what he really wants? To live, fully, or to die?