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.
Mark Renney survives in the UK. He has had works published in STILL, RAW NerVZ and The Interpreters House. He also contributes to the Art Blog Collective Hijacked Amygdala.
© Mark Renney