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.e. cummings