[krapp]

   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