Jimmy stops under the stars for meat and wine.

Strolling off a cultured path on the North Norfolk coast, I clutch at gathered sticks. It’s near dark and one the most pleasant days of my life. I get on a can of beer and a string of sausages and lay down barefooted and wild-haired, my bag under my good old head and my ankles crossed. I stand at intervals, looking up at the splendorous night sky and contemplate the expiration of clouds as we roll together over a wood fire, churned and heated, singing, spitting in the red hot stones. It’s a local beach, mogulled by the feet of virgins and lost boys. Virginal and lost for now but not forever. They intend to feign sleep; half naked bodies entwined while the flames lick their hips. To fool each other they must first fool themselves and this deception is underway by the look in their eyes.

The beach reflects the outer channel and this night I wade in the water and catch another sausage with absurdly hot sauce and then wine and stars, stars pretending to be glorious and unique, when deep down they feel only brotherhood and same.  

I get to work on the wine and push it far down the beasts’ neck and drive myself away to avoided favorites such as mint-choc-chip ice cream, away on a drink and a smoke.

On my taste buds at eleven pm the sigh of the sea out there (somewhere near Holland) asks about my life and about the little mute tramp by my side and about being quite mad and cooking sausages over coals. I relax back to near mental health and a thin old universe of de-pixilated stars finds reflection so exhausting and unsociable, that it climbs into the belly of the North sea for a proper decent cuddle.
Digging down into the two tasty ones we head into a cross-legged discussion. We agree that since before the leftover part of our fortune came,  they all looked surprised to see us, even with only a few miles elapsed. Virgins and shop-keepers and publicans and birds and fish and even the early flames of the nightly fire, all gasp with surprise as we present and position.

The mute tramp establishes himself about my thoughts at this point and bites them off at the end. At the other end of the beginning-less evening, he lays down facing me. I pitch him sausages and tip him wine with his head on the honest sands and his own miserably small body picked out by starry pixels humming wondrously in the sky. He lays as still as a terd and says even less. We chomp, slug, chomp and blow the hubbly while all living creatures stop like mice to inhale our divinity. The wine eases down the rich bites of hot meat, sizzling on the tongue like many human-beings singing with feigned hope before they die. We sit and listen to ourselves and blow smoke over the water as the air gets exulted in one of the warmer and foggier nights since embarkation. 
On the matter of warm nights and the valleys of the coast, both the little mute and I have made unsuccessful attempts to hold the seas and cliff tops in our hands. Yet we still get up and swig wine and pace back and forth and flinch when the sand in our blankets dance about our chests like proposing electric fingers.

 Pretty soon we head of the beach at a siding up ahead. The mute and I figure that tearing up yesterdays regrets is the way to live. To drink wine and masticate and keep the rest to a minimum. The night has become bored of our chatter and finally it creeps off as nonchalantly as it crept in. At the pinnacle of deliberation we ask a question to the sun whilst it's still weak and emerging. What does it know of 'The Soup'? But before we dare listen to an answer, the electric fingers of sand remind us about the future dust that our bones will surely make, and we run, run, run, singing, spitting, running back home the long way round. Back home where lonely virgins strive for diamonds and all while the silly gems glisten about their feet unnoticed. We will run free in the soft eastern sands for them, with a sausage and the question and a bottle of dark hot wine.

not The End