Your breath strikes, and your eyes turn to the majestic mountains in front of you. Your saliva dries up and your tongue becomes knotted. How many eons have it been since you last spoke to him? Your final decision to worship your Creator in your own way has remained unresolved. How many lean nights did you not succeed in conversing with him despite your efforts? Have you forgotten how a slave is alone with his Lord? Or do you not know a way other than the old ways that you resented? You were once Hayy bin Yaqzan on a deserted island, so tonight can you be Musa? Whisper in a low voice that only you can hear, despite the silence around you, but you know for sure that it counts your movements and your silence, and does not miss any of your moods. Your letters come out faintly confused, like a long, weary sigh: Lord, my God.. my Creator.. Whatever your name is.. show me to look at you!