We have trouble leaving him, we are afraid of posthumous regrets. We have worn him a lot, the old suit. We will have to give up this reflection of what we were. That a breath of white lilac is still fragrant. For a few seasons now, we are surprised when we exhume him. We keep him for no reason, I presume. Only for, before giving him to the night watchman who is running away. A last look of astonishment at the old suit. We dress in jeans, in yeye, in hairpins or feathers. We would like to get rid of the old suit. But we still hesitate a little when making a gesture. We believe to see again in the fold of the jacket. The hand that once came to rest there. The time of a dance. So many fates have crossed when we think about it. So many looks that more or less have sunk into the mist. Who have you as a last witness? The old suit. He danced under the lamps, in times of madness, carelessness. For the waltz, I was a champion, it was my dance. He did well in the setting when love was in the program. He married with the body a little of the soul. Of all his moments of happiness, he kept like a trace. Which makes us suddenly have the heart in a deadlock. Or look at the future, throw it into the fire that greets. Who has kept in memory the old suit. By cooling a few measures of a song that unfolds. We throw a last look on the old suit. Passing the hand on the fabric, we say to ourselves like that. That it's ugly. That no turtle on it will have no pocket. The night watchman is no longer there. The garage is electronic. So let's keep our pianos there and their music. Let's close the cupboard in the spring. On our twenties that will be the moon. And let's keep some more time. The old suit.