I am praying in a mud-brick mosque in Burkina Faso. It is dark inside, and a mud-brick mosque requires enormous pillars to support it, so really the interior has half space for people and half pillars. You’re very spread out in these mosques, no one bothers to stand shoulder to shoulder. So I am sitting waiting for prayer and the muezzin starts his call. I am staring at the mud wall in front of me, and his voice actually sounds like the ghost of Vincent Price. That’s all I can think. I had never heard someone call like that. It’s beautiful, because it’s unintentionally frightening. I look at the cracked dirt in front of me and think of God as something strange and organic.