Instinct drew us towards our destination as the incipient winter blew on our necks. Except there was no us to speak of, as she flew high above the muck of earth and even the old man had sloughed off his skin, becoming at one with nothing. I rejoiced in nothing too, feeble in the face of daily adversity, a rabbit in time’s headlights.

The road uncurled like a serpent, enticing and fearsome, a lifeline to what was left of the future, that half finished masterpiece of intent. We thundered on, picking up speed in the never ending dawn, crazy horses panicked by the wind. She smelt the sea and surged ahead.

He and I, plodding dogs of the past panted and dripped. There was nowhere left to go but forward, like this mad narrative, chaotic and unabridged. The coast was somewhere up ahead, a wasteland of salty sputum and crashing hopes.

In the dying day, the stragglers limped towards the light but found themselves on a dismal headland, overlooking all that lay before. The boiling mass of cloud grumbled over and the wind shrieked invective at the waves. And in the distance the wretched inn appeared and disappeared.