Trapped in the barren, sterile landscape of banality, and unable to escape from the anhydrous planes of unoriginality of a white-collar job, a dejected office drone can't help but admit defeat. Spending most of his time in a cubicle, suffocating under his impeccable suit, little by little, the man is turning into a breathing automaton of flesh and blood, lacking imagination and creativity. And then, out of the blue, an abstract idea in the shape of a cold claw hammer strikes him. Is this what dreams are made of?