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Open Letter to Rick Blaine on Charles Bukowski

Dear Rick:
It's two o'clock and I'm looking out the balcony of my little flat in the capital. I'll get the second pack of Marlboro Light (go contradiction!) day, I linked a championship hangover with a subtle and gentle drunk, for what not to waste the weekend and reverse the liver that we stay in a piece of badness. It is not my fault. Looking at my watch, I think it should be 11 in America. Whenever it is 11 in America, Paris never existed, we never left that city and the splendor of German troops parading through the old flooring in the French capital.
not know where the world they lived, Rick. I mean, it never rains in the stations, no one writes letters. Sms no ink to slide in a corner loneliness of exile. In the cafes where we invest the hours and patience never sounds "La Marseillaise." What the hell. Freedom, this concept that eventually overcoming the game (are you a sentimental, Rick, and we both know) became a philosophical concept by the postwar French existentialists themselves (some collaborators, but also other more demure).
You know that I am a movie buff. And existentialist. And, you know you have known for several years. I was 14 and became "Casablanca" by Telemadrid at odd hours. For a moment on the tape, a simple phrase:
- Of all the cities in the world, all the bars, had to come to precisely this.
Another scene. Ilse enters the café and asks Sam to play "As Time Goes By." You enter through the door opposite and in a marvel of interpretation, his face becomes an indescribable grimace. The face of reality peering through the windows of the past. The face of consciousness broken, the face that wield a butterfly before going to tender infernal fire.
I, like many other moviegoers, I confess that I learned to love in "Casablanca."
I, like many other viewers, in many other corners of the world, I realized then that this was more or less accurate radiograph of our little story. In our little passion, that counts for nothing in this crazy. We we keep playing chess, smoking in silence, with maybe a little sentimental, and above all, know to stay at the airport when the fog is pervasive and catastrophe takes a melodramatic tinge.
us, if only as a fierce and forceful opposition from mediocre all the loose out there, as revenge against the winners, the grand, the elect of the story (foreign and female, to be exact), we must smoke with patience and just say, "Here's looking at you, kid"
Thanks for everything Rick.