A jaded journalist inherits an abandoned manuscript penned by an old acquaintance who has recently passed away. The writing a collection of ruminations on the nature of existence by a fifty-three-year old businessman who, as far as the journalist remembers, was a kind and gentle soul is nothing short of shocking. In it, this apparent everyman whom we know only as Mr. K writes that he has a son, daughter, and wife, but has no love for them. He claims that humans are like cancer cells, destroying Mother Earth with their unrestrained propagation. He looks at our mortal destiny with an...