Sooner or later, there comes a point in every man's life when he slips out of bed one night, pours himself a whisky, reclines himself on the couch and stares blankly. Reflecting on nothing in particular. The day after that is different. Only because it is worse than the day before. Nothing has got to give.
Then he realizes such pretentious exercises in the middle of the night are very vain and goes back to sleep. In the morning, he cuts himself with a half-blunt razor blade while shaving.