'What? Excuse me, I wasn't listening,' Cioran said. An old man, his forehead in a permanent frown, his small coal-black eyes without a soul, darkened by a fear for the eternal and his gray eyebrows, wearing a shabby corduroy jacket with white collar shirt underneath, his right hand, his fingers bend in a weak fist of despair, supporting his sleep, his cheeks weighing heavy of old age, a mouth that sighs without relief, this man tapped Cioran briefly on the shoulder. 'I didn't say anything,' the old man said. 'I wasn't listening either way.' Cioran picked up a porcelain cup and sipped from the coffee. He had not been able to sleep for two days, felt mentally urged but physically exhausted at the same time, he could hardly keep his eyes open, felt restless nevertheless. Cioran was a thinker who believed. Only action leads to great ideas, he believed, but Cioran was tortured by the prospect that his efforts were going to be without meaning. Great people are shaped in a moment in time, and timing depends on intuition, coming and going without hesitation, without time for thought. What purpose lay there in a dialog for a man like Cioran, so he remained silent and reflected on this torturous body hanging down from the branches of his skeleton like Dali's melted clocks from a tree. His forehead seamlessly continued into his wavy, gray hair, combed backward, the elongated lifeline of his frown, the groove on his chin, his eye cavities in which the shadows of the world danced like flickering lights, like false ideas.
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