stop making sense

Listening to Calexico's version of "going down to acapulco" makes me nod with wistful melancholy. I want to accept life's strange and beautiful mysteries with wild and delusional exuberance. I want to smile simple at the things I don't know, and can't understand. I want to melt in past-life ecstasy when I see an ancient friend, when I smell the perfume of a lush, uncompromising memory. I want to drink wine with all of these things, with days, old and new, so that I could meet you like I have so often in midnight reveries.

I'm going down to Rose Marie's
She never does me wrong.
She puts it to me plain as day
And gives it to me for a song.

It's a wicked life but what the hell
The stars ain't falling down.
I'm standing outside the Taj Mahal
I don't see no one around.

Goin' to Acapulco
Gon' on a run.
Goin' down to see some girl
Goin' to have some fun.

Now, whenever I get up
And I ain't got what I see
I just make it down to Rose Marie's
About quarter after three.

There are worse ways of getting there
And I ain't complaining none.
If the clouds don't drop and the train don't stop
I'm bound to meet the sun.

And if the well breaks down
I just go pump on it some.
Rose Marie, she likes to go to big places
And just sits there waiting for me to come.

Goin' down to Acapulco
Goin' on the run.
Goin' to see some girl.
Goin' to have some fun.