pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness --- electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange; lenses extend unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish returns on its unself. A world of made is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if --- listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go
-
E. Cummings