drag themselves down

Now back to the village of sadness I go, when I shall depart again no bodies know. The streets haven't changed much, the people still mope and drag themselves down dead-end, slippery slopes. I won't be here too long, a few days at most, then straight to the west, Californian coast I likely will venture, will fly, run, and bolt as if I'd been stung by electrical jolts. It isn't so bad here, some people will say, who're stuck in a rut and cannot see clearly just how deep depression and foolishness run when people forget that they're made up of suns and stars long-exploded, dust, air, nothingness, that they can take heaps of grief onto their chests or shrug off the weight of their past legacies and venture alone to shores far overseas.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥