A dusty room, Paris, 1951. Romanian insomniac Emil Cioran is sitting on the floor tying knots with random string. Czeslaw is at the table, head in his hand.

 

Czeslaw: what is morbid is highly valued today

Emil: oh i agree, agony is the only truth

Czeslaw: it used to not be when did this happen

Emil: sometime between the wars, maybe?

Czeslaw: maybe. those were the days

Emil: except that one was either remembering obliteration or expecting it

Czeslaw: true. wars begin inside of one person how bananas is that

Emil: not very, i have one going on right now. would you like to see it?

Czeslaw: no i would like for it to go away how can we end pain i’m bored

Emil: i don’t know have you read my collection it’s very lyrical

Czeslaw: poems should only be written under incredible duress

Emil: duress happens all the time dummy

Czeslaw: poetry has a touch of evil to it sometimes i think i’m a conduit of Satan all these paroxysms it’s frankly embarrassing

Emil: i enjoy paroxysms myself it’s no big deal

Czeslaw: you are sitting on the floor playing with string

Emil: we are both suffering but i have string

Czeslaw: i’m going to go

Emil: why where

Czeslaw: i’m going to look for a navel orange

Emil: it’s winter there are no navel oranges in Paris

Czeslaw: i think you are in love with futility i have to leave

Emil: i think you are in love with skirting pain and that is even worse

 

Czeslaw’s coat flaps about him as he rushes out the door. He tries to slam it but the wood is swollen by a handful of centuries, so he cannot.