Walking in leaf-dappled sunlight; enjoying the stars; splashing barefoot in a stream; traipsing along an old wooded path with a hard kick to the gut and a swift poke in the eye.
Jimm was born a poor black child. He remembers the days sitting on the porch with the family, singing and dancing down in Louisiana, when his only toys were a tetanus-covered stick and messy hair. Raised in the bracken and boughs, muddy with alluvial soils among still waters and the furies of creation, he can be seated to sup among Lords, giving no indication of his origins save a faint odor of chelonian effluence.
Jimm is now a master as well as appréciateur of so-called civil society, yet so contemptuous of its failing participants that he lives in a protracted state of oscillation between love and loathing of all. To return alone to the damp earth beneath the canopy will no longer suffice. His social cohorts, however, fail him every day.
Jimm no longer lives in the world of man, yet walks next to him every day.
All in all a pleasant fellow, He finds temporary solace as a secluded Bohemian and non-self-sufficient farmer, who seeks to get off the grid, live by candle light and only eat what he kills or grows, living alone in the bee-loud glade, as it were