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I saw him drinking, flames in a glass, getting up voiceless, singing into an intercom; we live lives with wrinkled jackets, if you don't know it yet, none of us will have ironed shirts anymore; yesterday, I took off the last one as if it were armor and the buttons had been creaking for a while; pinning elbows and knees into an empty bed and sinking, none of us will have ironed shirts anymore. None of us will have ironed shirts anymore, or it's just a nightmare and I've forgotten them, none of us will have ironed shirts anymore, as much as I dreamed of them, as much as I dreamed of them. We cast low looks, like wounded beasts, perhaps you understand it, when like us, you too sometimes admire your lives; like pencils, bitten but sharpened in children's pockets but wait until the days pass to try to make sense of what you do.