Drinking Absolute

“What’ll it be?”

Kierkegaard was frozen for a second 

in mid sit. He eased himself onto the

bar stool.

He had just come in for a quiet drink.

His mind was full of the latest theories

and calculations. The last thing he 

expected was to be stunned by the most

profound philosophical question he had

ever heard.

“The usual?”

He had not yet even gotten his bearings

since the first question, and, here, a 

profound corollary assailed him again into

stupefaction. He felt he was waking into

Einstein’s dream.

Wordlessly, he got up and walked out of

the bar, the bartender, a quizzical expression

on his face, looked after him, wiping a glass.