I throw my makeshift , my prayer rug, on the floor and I get on my knees, lower...

I throw my makeshift , my prayer rug, on the floor and I get on my knees, lower my forehead to the ground, my tears soaking through the sheet. I bow to the west. Then I remember I haven't prayed for over fifteen years. I have long forgotten the words. But it doesn't matter, I will utter those few words I still remember: . There's no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger. I see now that Baba was wrong, there's a God, there always had been. I see Him here, in the eyes of the people in this {hospital} corridor of desperation. This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him, not the white with its bright diamond lights, and towering minarets. There's a God, there has to be, and now I will pray, I will pray that He forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years, forgive that I have betrayed, lied, and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need, I pray that He is as merciful, benevolent, and gracious as His book says He is. {...} I hear a whimpering and realize it is mine, my lips are salty with the tears trickling down my face. I feel the eyes of everyone in this corridor on me and still I bow to the west. I pray. I pray that my sins have not caught up with me the way I'd always feared they would.

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