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