As years go by, my book is turning into a veritable labyrinth. And in four dimensions, no less. What with addenda and citata, one wanders through both space and time. Left and right, backwards and forwards, hither and thither, one is everywhere at once. As well as nowhere, which can be frightening at times. As I keep writing, the labyrinth grows all the time. At the same time, it becomes ever more complex. Windows pop up offering new vistas on the vast structure. And so do hatches leading to stairs descending into mind-boggling darkness. Vast halls bursting with sunlight open up here and there, but they are connected to each other by murky corridors with ragged floors and crumbling ceilings. Many of the corridors lead nowhere, at least for the time being. Although I like to think of the labyrinth as my home, much of it strikes me as deserted, or at least rarely visited. Besides, a home would have at least one front door, and an ample one, but my labyrinth appears to have none. Whenever I think that I have found one at last, I am disappointed quickly enough. Behold, yet another wall! My book grows around every potential exit or entrance at a speed that surprises even myself. By now, it is writing itself. And at an alarming clip.