Women are vacuums.
They thrive on pain.
Ilsa Lund was a liar for love. She had it all. She started the war.
She was always wet in the eyes.
It’s all “We’ll always have Paris”, but I never got to make a spare
key.
At my place everyone knows my name. But they don’t know dick.
I sacrifice for love.
That’s the way it is, the women lie, the men sacrifice. I am telling
the truth.
The women lie and it is a sacrifice.
The men sacrifice and it is a lie.
No one makes a living, unless they can get the right papers.
The ones we each have are expired or worthless.
Or else expensive and unrescindable. Or so they say.
You’re right, I am more impressed.
But I still have a heart. How could you not and still stay afloat in
this desert?
We both got where we were going, Ilsa and I. Both by our
transportation of choice.
God damn I loved that woman.
She’ll never hear the end of it.
P.S. Why am I crying, Ilsa? I… It’s just… It’s just I love you so
much and I hate this damn war so much.
Oh, the world is so crazy,
Anything can happen.
Ask Victor Laslo.
You don’t know me like he does.
Not even he does.
But I still love you, just like I said.
…
Ah, Lou…
You don’t know where I been, Lou.
The Haunted Typewriter 