pity this busy monster

in

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 (1944)

***********************************