It is midnight at the Winterbourne Psychiatric Institution. The only sound is the staccato hammering of a Smith-Corona Silent-Super typewriter. The crack of its Bakelite keys ricochet through the corridors like six-inch nails pounded into a solid mahogany plank. The man at the typewriter rails against the world while plotting his own suicide. So begins an ironic, dark, comedic romp through the complex mind of a man on the edge.