They came here to die.

The sun sets long in the land where everyone comes to die, a place of long faces, long hearts, long stories and long balls. The lines at the drug stores wrap around the corner and everyone there knows your name, and how long you've got cause it's etched as deep into your soul as the hunger of coke in a whore's eyes. No one has to walk, they just roll around on wheels more similar to the makings of an angel than they know.
I came here just for a visit but the roots grew up my legs. Now that I am unable to lift my feet I sit in the row of shotguns peering out a dirty window into the main drag. All of us searching for new blood as the dirt slowly reclaims us.
We gotta roll around and see what we can find to envelope like a protazoa, the cycle turned all the way around, and boy you weren't paying attention.
When the young come here, you know, just to get away, they think they are gonna come for just a second but as they step into town their insides start rearranging and they turn gray and rocky like the moon. They know that before long, if they don't get the operation their going to die, so they start currying favors in the eyes of the tough bunch. Maybe if they close their eyes too they can tough it out.
But the days turn to months, and they stop eating, and they start shitting blood, and they stop feeling. But, at least they are moving forward.
As long as there's trajectory you haven't really lost anything, right?
That's what the old folks say, and you wanna act like you're something different but, in the end we all turn out the same, a kernel or dirt that blow's around aimlessly in the wind and then parks its ass on the same Earth it started out on, and the cycle recycles.
As long as there is a trajectory you haven't really lost anything.