But now my years are spent in groaning;*70 yet you are my comfort, Master, you are my eternal father. But as it is, I have exploded into pieces of time whose sequence I don’t know; and in a riot of contradictory states of being, my thoughts, the inmost viscera of my soul, are mangled—and I’ll continue this way until I’m cleansed in the fire of your passion and made fluid and run into you.
