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"Slow was I, Lord, too slow in loving you. To you, earliest and latest beauty, I was slow in love. You were waiting within me while I went outside me, looking for you there, misshaping myself as I flung myself upon the shapely things you made. You were with me all the while I was not with you, kept from you by things that could not be except by being in you. You were calling to me, shouting, drumming on deaf ears. You thundered and lightninged, piercing my blindness. You shed a perfume - inhaling it, I pant for you. For your taste, I hunger and thirst. At your caress, I am feverish for satisfaction."
-Augustine, Confessions