So you stop. You stop and you think. The physical world is just an illusion and your goal is solid and concrete and real. More real than anything that can exist here. So you stop. You breathe, only to keep yourself alive. You think. Your surroundings melt away - without you perceiving them, they cease to exist - another reason that the Screaming Zahir cannot truly exist here.

And you think.

You think of a monastary. A quiet place of solitude and silence. A place of knowledge and penance. All the things that your goal represents. You cannot think your way directly to the Screaming Zahir, but you can think yourself closer and you have. You emerge in a dark, silent place. Monks in masks walk brass corridors. Sand pours through a timer carved from the bones of some impossible being.