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 nice universe next door; let's go


~ e.e. cummings~