He stands by the doors of the Rex all night

Chain-smoking Celtas

His eyes trouble more than one woman

His voice is heavy and deep

There’s dirt on the sidewalk

And the newsboys yell

Nothing ever changes at the Parallel

Nothing ever changes at the Parallel

There’s a girl at the Molino

She wears a leather coat

The dust of Barcelona

Sticks to her heels as she walks through the door

And he thinks “What the hell does she come here for?

Maybe she wants me, and that’s her way to say it

Maybe she wants me, and that’s her way to say it

Maybe she wants me, but who am I to tell?”

He bites his fingernails

Scratches his eyebrows

Lights another cigarette

Watching the queens of the street

Acting their parody of love

And he feels like he stands by the gates of hell

Nothing ever changes at the Parallel

Nothing ever changes at the Parallel

That girl from the Molino

Who wears the leather coat

Sits there rocking slowly on a chair

Gazing dreamly at the door

And he thinks “What the hell ist she looking for?

Maybe she wants me, and that’s her way to say it

Maybe she wants me, and that’s her way to say it

Maybe she wants me, but who am I to tell?”