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How great does one have to live to be worthy of writing a celebrated 'epic autobiography'? Or can one, no matter how 'shitty' their life is, freely write a 'shit poetry autobiography' that is worth reading?
In a corner forgotten by time on the fringes of the city, there is a moldy bookstore named AN JING. Those who step into the bookstore are urban dwellers with nowhere to escape to, seeking answers.
Each customer pieces together a different chapter: an unwed mother, a fool for love, someone troubled by their family of origin. They all flip through their sealed-away past.
A has-been singer with an ulterior motive walks into the bookstore. Ignorant, she meets the bookstore owner who has read countless books and weathered customers. What will her next page, or final page, look like in front of them and the great books?