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
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