Interpol - All The Rage Back Home

It is dark. We are driving; I AM driving, and she is traveling on a passenger seat because she is a big girl already,
my daughter,
she is talking and waving her arms and meters go by, and kilo-meters, semaphores, street lamps and parking lots guarded by dogs,
we are driving
and the radio is on.

There is a song on the radio.
She is listening to the song and I am not because I am driving and because I am a thousand miles away from that car and from that radio and from that song,
but she is happy and she's waving her arms and she yells:

"Why don't we have more songs like this?"

and I have no clue who we are listening to but the question is a lead ball starting the Rube Goldberg machine in my head and after a stream of clicks and whirls and cubes and falls
in the time span shorter then two blinks of an eye
my brain comes up with:
"But we do! We have complete Interpol discography."

After we come home we look into Interpol, we ask for recommendation where to start - because I do not know their discography but rather their sound - and we listen to, recommended,
All The Rage Back Home.

I keep falling, maybe half the time, maybe half the time
I keep falling, maybe half the time, maybe half the time
But it's all the rage back home
It's all the rage back home

She claps her hands, ecstatic to stand in front of one more door leading into the room filled with treasure,
and I sit there motionless,
my insides cut open,
while wondrous hypnotic rhymes avalanche me with powdery whiteness of emotion.
Each wonderful snowflake feather-light mathematical jewel.
All of them together crushing weight of existence.

I keep falling, maybe half the time, maybe half the time
I keep falling, maybe half the time, maybe half the time
But it's all the rage back home
It's all the rage back home

(Above text is my Facebook post published on 05/Dec/2018 - translated from Croatian)