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