A man walks into a bar—because, honestly, the universe couldn’t care less why. He orders a drink, hoping for some meaning at the bottom of the glass. The bartender serves it without looking up, a silent reminder that even small interactions are just noise in the cosmic void.

He takes a sip and thinks, “Well, at least this drink doesn’t ask me for a purpose.” The jukebox plays a tune so outdated, even the dust in the corner seems more lively. He looks around and notices everyone else pretending to matter, like actors in a play that’s already been canceled.

Eventually, he downed the drink, not because it helped, but because finishing something feels better than waiting for the universe to respond. Then he stood up and walked out, back into the indifferent dark, where the only bar to pass was the one he set for himself—a low one, at best.