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Did it all happen in the laboratory? Beneath one lamp by day and billions by night? Are we a trial generation? Poured from one beaker to another, shaken in retorts, observed by something more than an eye, each one individually taken by forceps? Or maybe otherwise: no interventions. The transformations occur on their own in accordance with a plan. The needle draws the expected zigzags. |
Maybe until now there was nothing interesting in us. The control monitors are seldom switched on, except when there's a war, and a rather big one at that, several flights over the lump of clay called Earth, or significant movements from point A to point B. Or perhaps thus: they only have a taste for episodes. Look! a little girl on a big screen is sewing a button to her sleeve. The monitors begin to shriek, personnel comes running in. Oh, what short of tiny creature with a little heart beating on the inside! What graceful dignity in the way she draws the thread! Someone calls out in rapture: Tell the Boss, and let him come see for himself! |