Image by Christine Renney
He is invested in the sermon but his words are not escaping so easily, each one an effort, a hard and misshapen memory. Thin and wasted, he is almost worn away and I cannot tell if he is young or old, if the deterioration has been quick or it has taken a lifetime.
I watch his mouth moving, his hands and arms flailing and I can see clearly how disjointed it has become, this diatribe of his. I do not need to hear. This sermon is scratched. It has lost its rhythm and its momentum.