Pity this busy monster manunkind

'''pity this busy monster, manunkind, '''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