In Event Horizons Warren Czapa constructs a sequence of events moving between coastal ruins, hospital wards, and the Kafkaesque offices and institutes where a recurring figure known only as C is unmade. 

Czapa writes with an appetite for the grotesque and an eye for the body under strain, drawing illness and medication, shame and self-estrangement, and the corporate harvesting of private life into one disquieting record. 

Presiding over it is the singularity and event horizon itself, the threshold beyond which information is lost and history can no longer be trusted.