Herman Flick often was inspired to write a book about his life. He would watch movies, uplifting and moving movies that were less kinetic than the word suggests, and think to himself that maybe his life could contain enough interest and serendipity to be made into a movie, or at least a moderately successful book. As soon as the credits rolled and he reeled from the sharp release of the typically straightforward plot, Herman would get up from his couch and narrate his way to the toilet, always making sure to capture some sort of mercurial essence to his unwritten story. When mercurial proved outside his grasp, he settled on leaden. Either way, he felt it added something to his urination.
Herman Flick did not like complicated plots, and thus had never read a book over 300 pages long. He reasoned that there was enough good literature in the world that finished up within 299 pages and still contained some moment of serendipity.
Herman Flick was especially fond of serendipity.

In the immediate moments after the odd 128 films that Herman thought contained some sort of transcendent moment of beautiful revelation, he had not once started the story in his head, which he was sure was very good. He had tried, yet it always came out slightly differently to how his mind had planned it. Namely, it wasn't as good as it should be. And thus, Herman Flick stopped trying to write the first person narrative of his life, which he was sure was very good.

Herman was exactly as his name suggested, only slightly more portly and not quite as European.

One night, Herman sank deep into his couch and turned on his television. Light and sound reflected off his retinas and jiggled tiny little bones inside his ear for approximately 93 minutes. Herman felt he had witnessed something truly beautiful, poetic and most importantly, serendipitous. Perhaps, more so than anything he had ever seen before.
Inspiration took hold of his bladder, and he leapt up towards the toilet. For the first time in 128 films, no narration came with the steady flow of pale yellow urine that Herman was relieved to expel into his vaguely maudlin looking toilet. Instead, he was narrating someone else's life. Herman finished up and headed to his room.

Someone else, as it started out, was a nameless man of some indeterminable age with features that could only be described as plain. He was urinating into a vaguely lachrymose looking toilet. Herman looked from the word "lachrymose" typed out before him, then to the thesaurus open in front of him and regretted his choice.
He decided to leave the more poetic prose part of his book until later. He reasoned that he should have a strong basis on which to write his story. Or at the very least, a name.
He paused, deep in thought. When deep thought yielded no results, he sank into a brief moment of pensive deliberation. This, too, proved fruitless.
Herman Flick looked at the creme paper in front of him and sighed. He looked like a sad, leather bound first edition, forgotten in some old second hand bookstore.
This simile did not for a second enter Herman's mind, and yet at the precise moment which it applied to him the most, a name popped into his head. Or rather, a sort of phonetic blob, a name you can't quite catch.
It started with A and, Herman decided, had four letters. Maybe five.

Someone whose name started with A and had four or five letters in it was urinating into a vaguely... befuddled looking toilet. Herman wished he had a dictionary. He was beginning to think that maudlin did not mean what he thought it did.
Aaaa...a's steady flow of urine ceased and, in a single step, he moved to the sink. The smiling porcelain rim was covered with a thin layer of dust and stray hair that was only noticeable late at night, under the saccharine neon glow. Again, Herman was not sure that saccharine meant what he thought it did, but pressed on regardless, hoping to strike metaphor.
Herman marshalled his thoughts, and almost immediately thought of a second name for Aaaaa.

A. Marshall was urinating into a vaguely decrepit looking toilet. The floor was around it was slightly sticky, and he was relieved when he stepped towards the sink, although the floor around that was sticky too. The grinning porcelain rim was covered with a thin film of dust and stray hair that was only visible under the sick neon glow of his bathroom light. Marshall washed his hands with disdain and left the bathroom, flicking off the light as he went. The buzz died with the light and Marshall felt an incredible stillness. Herman also, felt this stillness.

There was no noise. There was no clatter of keys or the wet sound of feet sticking to laminated flooring, and most definitely no music to reinforce the impact of the moment. Indeed, exactly 12 seconds into this marvellous silence, Herman noticed that there was no moment at all. Just a stunning lack of one. Marshall also noticed it, but never got to react.

Herman strained to make something of this non-moment but came up silent. He re-read the few lines he had already written. They seemed to sag under inspection.
This was not his life, nor his story. He was sure that that story would be much better than what he'd just written. He left the last sentence unpunctuated, and stood up from his desk.

Marshall stood, frozen just outside his bathroom door, in complete silence and complete darkness. Just short of serendipitous epiphany