On the Fear of an Empty Glass Press enter or click to view image in full size The bar was almost empty. One of those old places that outlive their regular customers and, over time, begin to resemble not a location but a state of mind. Yellow light drifted lazily across the wooden counter, and the air smelled of wine, tobacco, and conversations that had lost their meaning long ago but still carried on out of habit. Rain fell outside. Not the dramatic downpour of bad novels, but an ordinary evening rain — tired, calm, and entirely indifferent to human theories. At the far end of the bar sat a strange-looking man with a bottle of cheap wine and the expression of someone who had either understood far too much about life or become hopelessly lost in it. A young man at a nearby table watched him for a while, then waved the bartender over. “Who’s that supposed to be?” The bartender shrugged without interrupting his ritual of polishing glasses. “They say he’s a philosopher.” The young man smirked. “Seriously?…