I should like to speak with you, my God, and yet what else can I speak of but you? Indeed, could anything at all exists which had not been present with you from all eternity, which didn't have its true home and its most intimate explanation in your mind and heart? Isn't everything I really ever say a statement about you? On the other hand, if I try, shyly and hesitantly, to speak to you about yourself, you will still be hearing about me. For what could I say about you except that you are my God, the God of my beginning and end, God of my joy and my need, God of my life?
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