You've been down all the cracked, worn streets. Past tired houses and broken sidewalks. The cracks scattered about the pavement are filled in, but only temporarily. You hear the lawns sigh everyday because no one cares anymore. What could these roads have beheld? Did these houses hold love, hold fights, hold families? How many joys have they seen? How many sorrows? They're as old as the golden sun it seems, and growing older everyday.

You walk down these twists and turns, over the bumps and broken concrete. The streets in the next town over are paved with gold. What's that anymore? You see the plebeian businesses lead by the insane, saint hospitals by the meek. Who can say what will endure? We see restaurants that didn't last, the bars that did; they come in and never leave until the town's been sucked dry.

You don't even know why you stay here anymore. The old man down the street says he's seen it all; you ask him what he means and realize you're talking to yourself. Go home and pour yourself a cup of coffee, watch the sun color the paint chipped building next door. The town will go bad and you won't remember it after long. So says the rural decay.