Last we left our hero he was standing all alone at an ATM machinenThey were both very out of ordernQuite predictably that picture that he’d painted of the morningnIt had begun to crack and peel, a photo finish of surrealnnIs it true that we are nothing more than boxes sitting in the basement,nand the more that we keep looking, the harder we are to find?nThe record keeps on spinning while the volume’s way downnThe needle takes its time falling in and out of line,nnWell it’s been a Strange day in Mexico.nnAre we that dull that all the things that we used to do are never what we wanted to but ces la vie, and so it all goes until we think something is missing againnOur hero looks out of the bubble and he pours himself another and the wonder starts to fade away from the outside looking in, from the outside look innnWe have a tendency to hide behind obscurity, but everyone’s so beautifulnWhy do we hide at all?nWhen you get to where you need to be won’t you drop me a linenIf the music’s out of tune, at least I hope you like the viewnnEverybody, everybody, celebrate the good timesnChampagne for everyone, but I’m not buying.n