Scent of a Woman

if wednesdays used to mean park klub, ten-zloties-unlimited beer until one o' clock, until you passed out from the bottomless one-liter glasses, until the enormous security monsters throw you out, until you throw up in the strangely, still-grassed median strips,

if mondays do mean tango, broken promises, one long, unbroken chain of humilations and pauses of embarrassment, tango again (but solo), tango, romance and passion (combined),

let's from now on give a gypsy-swing meaning to thursdays in order to remember all those nights in Barcelona that have irreversibly past, that full of gypsy and sex and music and new acquaintances and joints and sex were filled, let's from now on listen and sing and dance and make love only with gypsy music at thursday nights,

lets add a meaning, a whatever meaning, philosophical, superficial, deep or pretentious in every other night besides thursday and monday night, until the army duty's a hazy sight, in order to remember, in order to cross the remaining days easy, painless, remembering. That's the most important thing, remembering, 

'cause in such a daily seamy (I just found the perfect rhyme for Symi, it's seamy, not see-me) routine, the forgetting -dear Hannah you forgot already about me, am I right? Why you don't send me, why you don't call me anymore, I apologised twice- and the not remembering are inevitable.