Tight clothes for tight time,
Elastic thinking for elastic reality,
And all leftovers are despised:
Food, light, heat, air, time, words;
Nothing can be vainly wasted.

Correct use of words,
Food enough to frighten hunger,
Heat to keep the mood right:
All is precise,
Even our behavior,
Even our calendars,
Even our gluttony,
Even our *******.

In a fluid era,
Precision is our cicuta.
Yet, it is hard to say
Which is medicine, which is poison.
So far, the best we've being doing
Is keep taking both.

Death is certain,
There is no reason for panic.
The hard part, in my opinion,
Is to inhabit the tight coffin.